Tales of 221B
by Wordwielder
Summary: Drabbles about Sherlock, Watson, and their adventures together. Some funny, some sad, some sweet. NO SLASH. Most certainly not in any order.
1. Boswells

**This is my first Sherlock Holmes fanfiction. I love these two adventurers. I envy Mary Morstan for getting Watson.**

It was another of London's famed fog-grey days, and at 221B Baker Street both tenants were scribbling away: Holmes laboring over a monograph, and Watson working on one of his narratives. The good doctor was editing quite mercilessly. He muttered, "Holmes'll call that romanticized," as he etched out a line. Watson paused and looked up. "Holmes?"

"Watson," Sherlock responded, his eyes never leaving his page.

"Do you recall what color dress Miss Violet Hunter was to wear at the window? I confess it slips my mind whether it was cobalt or some more eccentric shade of blue."

"No; you know my memory is much less for silly trifles like that as yours."

"Not when it comes to cases."

"There is truth to that," Holmes admitted. "Wasn't it electric blue?"

"Ah, yes. Thank you," Watson scribbled over something.

"Is it really so important?"

"Of course. Every detail in a case matters, Holmes; such is the way with a tale."

Holmes chuckled at his friend. "You are the most thorough of Boswells."

**Reviewers get my love, so review!**


	2. Baffled

"…thank you both so very much," Lady Elizabeth Carmicheal gushed. "What I would have done without you, I don't know."

"A simple matter, madam," Holmes replied.

"We're happy to have helped," Watson added. "Tea?"

"Thank you, doctor. I didn't consider it simple, boys; you've helped me a great deal."

After the lady left, Holmes said to his friend, "A most successful case, Watson. Your way with women certainly proved handy."

Watson snorted. "My way with women. You are most preposterous, Holmes."

"My dear Watson, without you how would I have distracted the Duchess to recover the jewels?"

Mrs. Hudson knocked. "Lunch."

"The Duchess is happily married, Holmes."

"And most responsive to your flattery, Watson. Oh, do come in Mrs. Hudson. I apologize for keeping you waiting."

"Oh, sandwiches, thank you," Watson exclaimed. "You look lovely today, Mrs. Hudson. Is that a new dress?"

Holmes chuckled. "Precisely what I mean, Watson."

"May I ask something, Mr. Holmes, Doctor?"

"Of course."

"Why do you address each other only by your last names? I have simply noticed and am curious."

Watson and Holmes exchanged blank looks.

"I couldn't say," Watson admitted.

"I don't know," Holmes said, brow furrowed.

Watson laughed. It was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock Holmes truly baffled.


	3. Point

**My first try at Sherlock's POV! WHOOO! And Watson chatises!**

I was not surprised to see my friend Dr. Watson striding up Baker Street. I had recently submitted my own little narrative of one of my cases, and I, after spending many years making my own comments upon his work, rather expected a response to mine.

Watson entered and greeted me as warmly as ever, though one could easily observe by the issue of The Strand hanging out of his medical bag and a certain twinkle in his eyes that he had an ulterior motive.

"Watson," I sighed. "Please get on with your thoughts upon 'The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier.' I admit I am curious."

Watson gave a hearty laugh and sat in his customary armchair. He retrieved the copy of The Strand and flipped to my work. "I do enjoy the title; it is reminiscent of my style," he began. He grinned so widely I believe I could have counted his teeth. "I was pleased the introduction. 'I am compelled to admit, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize the matter must be presented in such a way that may interest the reader….' That was quite satisfying, after I've been protesting the point for years. And," he added, with more softness, "I was quite touched by your comments upon me and my character. However," He continued, quite business-like, "I was affronted by this: 'The good Watson at that time had deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action I can recall in our association.' It's all well and good that you consider me unselfish, but really, old chum. Was I supposed to at your beck and call?"

I personally detest the emotion of guilt. It clouds the senses. And it was creeping over me now.

"And furthermore," continued Watson, "is it not selfish yourself to seek to monopolize my time and affections?"

I blinked at him, quite perturbed at the idea that Watson, my most faithful defender, was critiquing my character.

"I suppose I didn't think of it that light," I said finally.

Watson, at the undoubtedly queer expression on my face, smiled andd shook his head. "It's nothing, Holmes. I've forgiven you worse."

That was true.

Watson stretched his feet out. He said nothing of the pleasure it had given him to read, "And it is here I miss my Watson," for at times he doubted whether he was so very close to Holmes at all, and felt that he was the one attached to Holmes and Holmes felt no similar bond. "Overall, I enjoyed it, Holmes. I do think," he said with an amused smile, "You'll never write another now that you've proved your point."

Well, I did, and Watson was pleasantly surprised when I sent him a copy.

**Eh, the POV might have gotten hazy. But I loved that section where I go all omniscent on Watson too much to sensify it.**


	4. Years

**And another first! My first drabble without the actual appearance of Holmes and Watson.**

The inspectors of Scotland Yard had been released from their posts, and were happily occupying a little pub. The celebration was on account of the newly instituted Inspector Riley. Riley's first case, that day, had taken him to a terrible puzzle and through it, he had met the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes and his Boswell. "I find it incredible," Riley said in a low tone, half-fearfully, "That he and Dr. Watson are so very close and have lived together for such a time. Holmes seems a most difficult person to live with."

"We had a bet he'd be out in a month," Gregson chortled. "We had too little faith in the doctor. Rare as rubies you find a man as patient as him."

"I lost terribly on that bet," Lestrade sighed. "I only gave it a week."

"Cheer up," MacPherson said, chugging his ale. "We all lost. Not a soul said it'd be more than six months."

Lestrade shook his head in amazement. "Much less years."


	5. Timing

**Beware- angsty throughout most of this. I almost cried.**

Mary Watson, nee Morstan, loved evenings when her husband wrote. She would knit in the parlor, rocking by the fire, while she listened to the comforting clack-clack-clack of the typewriter as John typed and the chuckles and murmurs and occasionally a wince resounding from the writing room as he remembered. She never intruded upon him. The writing room was simply his.

Today that was no different. It was the only thing that wasn't different.

There was no laughter today. Even the click of the typewriter sounded slow and somber, like the most melancholy of funeral eulogies. In a way, it was a eulogy—a final tribute.

There was no laughter. There was silence, silence so solemn it weighted the air. The only reprieve from the terrible quiet was the jagged, dry sobs emerging and darkening their world. Mary's heart ached to break the unspoken rule and go to John. But she knew his pride would leave him to grieve by himself.

Two years was so long to grieve alone.

Mary stayed awake much longer than she usually did to wait for John to come. She heard at one point the slosh of brandy, which John rarely indulged in, except at his worst, and the softest of unhappy laughs, along with: "Wouldn't take much to deduce my current state, would it, Holmes?"

He can't hear you, darling.

John finally dragged out of the writing room. His eyes were their normal hazel, but wide and exhausted. He stopped when he saw her: "Mary, gracious, it's nearly twelve!"

"John," She said. That was all she needed to say.

He held up a manuscript: "It's done, Mary. My last one. I called it 'The Final Problem.'"

Mary rose from her chair and laid a hand upon his arm. "A fine name. I'm sure he'd be impressed."

John laughed, an almost untouched sound, with only the edge of wistfulness. "Oh, no he wouldn't. He'd tell me not to dwell so much on his death and romanticize the story and for heaven's sake focus on his last success." He shook off the gloom and asked her, "What have you been out working on so quietly?"

Mary held out the white, gender-neutral short-dress.

John's shock was etched on his face, but that wasn't the only emotion she saw in his eyes: love; and untainted joy. "For—?"

"Yes."

He embraced her, lifting her into the air.

"You have impeccable timing, Mary."

**For those who don't know, they used to have this thing called short-dresses both boys and girls wore. Like onesies, except old timey.**

**I'll probably continue this one...**


	6. Healing

**A continuation of the last, now in future tense bcause I preferred this version. Much less angst, I assure you.**

In time, her stomach begins to round. John is ecstatic when she gasps that the baby's moving. Even once it's become a regular occurrence, he demands to feel each strong baby kick.

Mary can feel him healing.

The final sign is when he offers his writing room as a nursery. "Yellow paint…some cheerful curtains….a crib….it'll be just perfect." She hears the loving sacrifice: that sweet room, wallpapered with memories, the place he goes to look back—he is willing to give it all up to his child.

"No. It's sweet of you, John, but my sewing room is closer to our room."

"Are you certain you don't mind?"

"Perfectly certain."

He makes sure she takes exemplary care of herself and the unborn child. He's not taking any risks this time.

**TBC, loves! And you want great news? While trying to get this right, I got 12 ideas (!) and wrote about 7 of them out. I can gurantee you'll be seeing a lot of me. Review and tell me whether you want them all in one shot (not to be confused with a oneshot!) or 1-2 a day as I usually do.**


	7. Name

The child is born, and Mary's instinct was correct: it is his son. Mary is wane, exhausted from the ordeal of labor, but she hasn't stopped smiling since she first held her son. She is half dozing while her husband cradles the baby. "Mary," he whispers over the sleeping infant. "We must name him."

Mary shifts and sits up, though her throbbing muscles protest. "I was thinking…John."

John's eyes are loving, thoughtful. "I wondered if you mightn't mind… Sherlock."

"John Sherlock," She decides. "Named for two men who have given me a happy life."

John kisses the baby's hair. "John Sherlock."


	8. John Sherlock

John Sherlock, or Johnny as John nicknamed him, become dark-eyed like his father and blonde like his mother, and grew at such an alarming rate that he seemed to be growing to the height of his dead godfather. Yes, in his mind, Watson called Holmes John Sherlock's godfather. It would have been what he would have done, had Holmes been here, and death did not tarnish memories.

The baby spoke uncommonly early, crawled stealthily to steal his mother's best jewels and his father's stethoscope and examine them, and laughed often.

Watson doted on him terribly, and though Mary scolded he was going to spoil him she did

too.


	9. Flu

It began with normal routine of January colds and flus and fever. Watson was exhausted from the house calls all over London. He hadn't gotten this much exercise since the Afghan War. He sees so much illness he was quite impervious to small maladies.

But not Mary.

She was usually a hardy woman, but the labor had left her drained and susceptible. The cold preceded a flu which blossomed into delirious, thrashing fever. She went through chilling periods of speaking like a small child, where she did not see or recognize her husband at all. Other times she was lucid but frighteningly weak. Always, she insisted he keep calm because with the medicine she would be quite fine.

She was on the precipice before she allowed a doctor.

He had time to whisper, "I love you, Mary, as truly as a man has ever loved a woman." The same words he had spoken years before: but then they had been a gateway to a warm, joyous life; now they were the final admittance of the end of that life.

She turned her lips up in a smile, a tiny ray of her sun shining upon him, and murmured, "And…that…is…why…I…thank…God…"

He held the baby up to her as the dawn recolored the walls.

It was her last sight.

Dear little John Sherlock soon withered like a flower that frost has laid its icy finger on.

He was buried with his mother.

John felt like, in this city of thousands, he was alone.


	10. Nightmares Part 1

**I promise this relates.**

Sherlock Holmes' sleep patterns are erratic at best. His roommate's are perfectly regular, with one notable exception:

Nightmares.

Holmes is not asleep in his room. He hears each scream each night, screams of pain, of sorrow, of guilt, of anger.

He wonders each night whether he ought to awake the doctor, soothe him with the idea of dreams being only that, of the ghazis and blood and desert being the past; he reminds himself each time he is barely acquaintances with this fellow, and army men tend to have terrible pride.

Only after Watson's staunch loyalty shows itself does he enter the room and do his best.


	11. Nightmares Part 2

**Trying a new POV style here. Let me know what you think of it.**

Sometime in the years before your marriage, the nightmares of blood and death and pain and chaotic redness of war stopped. Nights become unblemished. Your last nights in Baker Street are peaceful.

Then Holmes is dead and they're back, full raging force and in them you stumble around screaming _God Holmes where are you where are you come back Holmes you can't be dead, _because he can't be, he should be right with you, but he's not and your screams sound like you cannot be human. When you awake Mary holds you and you hold her back because she's keeping you sane. The baby's coming and she and him are the glow of your life.

But then Mary's gone, taken by a flu you no doubt brought home, and so is your darling baby boy, John Sherlock Watson. You become a walking skeleton as your night become hell of guilt and loss and pain and loneliness.

This night is the same, except—

Tonight, someone is there.

"Thank you, Holmes," you say, softly.

"Of course."

You hope Baker Street can soothe your soul again; no, you know. It's already happening.


	12. Picnic

**Humor, darlings! I have missed you!**

"Holmes."

"What? What?"

"Generally, one doesn't have a picnic in a tree during a stakeout."

"Watson, I am accustomed to not eating regularly. You, on the other hand, if you do not eat and have received very little sleep, like I am aware you have, are prone to falls, injuries, and complaints. I took the necessary precaution of having Mrs. Hudson make sandwiches and tea."

Watson bit philosophically into a sandwich. "Thank you," he said at last.

"Thank the cook."

Their man exited the country house, moving swiftly and silently. It was at that moment Watson choked and dropped his tea glass on the man's head. The fellow crumpled to the ground; Holmes and the doctor jumped clumsily from the tree, alarmed. Watson checked his pulse, sighing, "Thank God, he's not dead. A man like this should pay for his crimes."

Holmes mused at the tree, "That was the easiest capture I believe I have ever witnessed. Perhaps picnics in trees should become our norm."


	13. Language

Lestrade is well past annoyed.

They speak in such tandem it's like they know what is other is about to say before it happens. More than worded plans he can fathom through, they use looks and gestures and half-sentences. A raise of Sherlock's eyebrow causes Watson to nod; a hand on his holster tells Holmes Watson is prepared.

They are headed to a stakeout and Lestrade would really like to know what's going on.

"The man's prepared—"

"Early, then—"

"He'll go—" A head jerk.

He's really annoyed when they sprint off around the back, the opposite direction they had discussed, catch the perp, and haul him back before Lestrade knows how they managed to collaborate without twenty words passing between them, in fragmented thoughts. Sherlock Holmes pants as they drag the huge bull of a man; Watson snarls as the man bites his wrist, "Bloody—! Thank you for your help, gentlemen."

"You didn't tell us where to go!"

Watson and Sherlock do more of their bloody silent talk. "You didn't get what we were planning?"

"Clearly."

Watson looks empathic, but he looks at Holmes and they both collapse into highly disrespectful giggles. "My apologies," Holmes' eyes twinkle. The doctor carefully nods.

One look at Holmes tells him they'll be mocking Lestrade's outrage on the walk home.

**oh, poor Lestrade. There should be a forum called "Lestrade's Woes".**


	14. Explosion

"Darling, are you all right?" Watson cried, swatting the dust and helping up his fiancé from her startled scrawl on the chemical soaked ground. He was gone for one minute—!

"Quite, Watson," said Sherlock wryly from under the couch. "I so appreciate your concern for me." Watson dragged the sofa off of Sherlock's thin frame. He stretched luxuriously. "Thank you. I was losing feeling in one leg and I'd hate to have a limp to match yours."

"Hate to see you with one, old chap, it's terribly bothersome. What exactly," he eyed the disheveled parlor, "happened here?"

Holmes shrugged. "Wrong bottle in an experiment."

Mary looked anxious. "Will your landlady be cross?"

Watson smiled at the floor. "No. She is accustomed to such explosions and really much worse." He carefully avoided Holmes' eyes, or he would lose composure at laughing at Mary's aghast face. "Perhaps I should walk you home?"


	15. Party

"Watson, I despise parties."

"Well, I don't, and I can't very well show up to a party we were invited to alone, can I?"

"Take some woman." Holmes dismissed him by pointedly opening the paper.

"Unless that woman's name is Sherlock, I doubt I'll be well received."

"Please; you know I am not a sociable creature."

"When you want to be," Watson argued. "Holmes, really, I cannot go to a party thrown by your brother alone. Mycroft only invited me so you would go."

"He's losing his touch if he thinks that will pressure me into going."

Watson groaned. "You are the most obstinate person to ever walk the earth!"

"You're more than a touch obstinate yourself," came the dry reply.

"Which is why I will continue to ask."

Watson was true to his word. Holmes knew the man had an uncommon skill for coaxing people into his will, or more simply put, nagging. He had experienced it first hand with cajoling to eat, or sleep, or STOP THAT RACKET.

He withstood most of the day, until Watson sat and stared at him at his experiments for an hour straight, almost inhumane in his infrequency of blinking.

"Fine!" Holmes finally snapped. "Just look somewhere else, for the love of God, I will go this ridiculous social gathering!"

Watson grinned. "Knew you'd come around."

**The power of persistance, people. (And alliteration, apparently.)**


	16. Holiday

"Watson, is it necessary to close the blinds?"

"Yes," Watson said firmly. "Every time we go away for your health, you manage to find a mystery. It is not happening this time. You are not even allowed to go outside without my supervision. I am closing to the blind to prevent temptation."

"I'm not a child caught sneaking out of his lessons, Watson."

"You're as incorrigible as one," Watson snapped.

"I will go stir crazy in here!" Holmes protested.

"You will not. I brought seven monographs, a chess set, four crossword books, and an artist easel. You will be fine. You will not have a breakdown from overwork like you are so determined to. And that is FINAL!"

"Alright, Mother dearest."

"If keeping you from falling down another set of stairs makes you call me mother, oh well!"

"Humph!" Holmes snorted. "Killjoy."

"I repeat: OH WELL."

**I figure after like the million times Watson and Holmes go away and manage to find a case while Holmes is supposed to be "resting", Watson would go all paranoid (with good reason...).**


	17. Banshee

Watson enjoyed listening to Holmes play violin, even entirely too loud and at odd hours, most of the time.

But he drew the line here.

"HOLMES!"

"What, what?" he snapped. The stringed demon stopped its wail. Like he had any right to be huffy!

"It is bloody five in the bloody morning!"

Holmes shrugged. "Don't be cross, old fellow. It's not my fault you were out so late walking with Miss Morstan. If you must blame someone, take it up with her." He began to play the devilish instrument—bah, of _torture_, perhaps— again.

"We are not bringing Mary into this! In most houses, someone isn't playing that banshee of a violin before the sun is up!"

Holmes paused. "Banshee?"

"Yes, it's a creature that begins to wail when someone is about to die. As I am about to jump out the window if that racket continues, I find it appropriate!"

Holmes smiled infuriatingly. "This is what I mean when I say pawky humor."

Watson gritted his teeth. "Holmes, your faithful friend and biographer will have another tale to add his collection about chopping your violin into small bits if this continues. Please. I have an early day tomorrow and won't be back until quite late."

"Of course," Holmes replied, his face clear.

He waited until he heard the doctor lumber back into bed before he began to play again, the sweetest of lullabies.

No doubt Watson heard it.

He didn't return to seize the violin. He just listened.

**Holmes references pawky humor in _The Valley of Fear_, saying Watson is developing "a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor." In other words, Watson's a little sarcastic. Also, a banshee is an Irish and Scottish legend, and we can deduce the connection between Scots and Waston due his middle name Hamish, which means James in Scottish. It makes sense Watson would be familiar with the term while Holmes wouldn't. (For those who were like, WHAT? when Mary called him James in _The Man with the Twisted Lip, _that's why. She does, in fact, know his name.)**


	18. Surgery

The manor was large and quiet, with a certain studious air that foreshadowed the scholar who lived within.

"Oh, thank you for coming!" Robert Hurst cried. "We have received another note and my wife's safety is growing ever more perilous…"

Holmes said seriously, "I promise I will do all I can. If you would, I wish to examine your wife's chamber—"

"Daddy?" a small voice whispered. A towheaded little boy with a bedraggled bear clutched in his elbow stood in the doorway of the manor, the light falling over him and making his small figure quite forlorn.

Mr. Hurst looked torn. "Would you watch my boy just a minute?" he begged me. Though somewhat taken aback, I looked at the lonely child and softened, replying: "Of course. Don't hurry." Holmes raced into the house, evidently on a hot scent. Robert Hurst hurried after. I approached the child and kneeled so I could look him in the eye. "Hello."

"Hello," The boy mumbled, twisting his face away shyly.

"I'm John," I said, holding out my hand. The boy shook it so gently it was though he thought I was made of glass. "Good firm handshake. What's your name?"

"Mathias," The boy said.

I gestured to the bear. "And what's his name?"

The boy perked a nearly imperceptible amount. "Sir Henry," he answered. I bowed to the bear. "Pleased to meet you, your lordship. At your service." The child giggled. I raised the bear's limp arm and said, "Looks as though he's a bit off color. Does he need a doctor's visit?"

"There's no bear doctors around."

"Well, lucky for him, I'm a certified bear surgeon. And," I added, raising my bag, "I have all the supplies I need." I held out my arms. "May I have the patient to prep?" Mathias reluctantly bequeathed his bear. I spread a quilt upon the grass and lay the bear upon it. Mathias hovered as I set out a sewing needle, thread, and a syringe and bottle. I drew up my syringe, using the bottle as though I had really filled the syringe with drugs. "Do you want to hold his paw while I put him to sleep?"

"He'll wake up, won't he?" The child asked anxiously.

"Certainly. This is just to make him more comfortable," I promised. Mathias squeezed Sir Henry's paw as I slid the needle into a stuffing hole and pushed. "He's asleep now." I threaded my needle, and began to re-stitch the ripped seams. I examined the loose arms and asked Mathias, "Can you do me a favor and bring me some stuffing and a ribbon from your mother's sewing room?"

The little boy raced off and was back with the materials as quickly as his little legs could pump him back.

I prodded some extra stuffing into the arms where the most had been lost and sewed him up. I ran my fingers through the bear's fur, untangling years of knots, and as a final touch tied the length of red ribbon around his neck. I presented the toy back to Mathias, who hugged him with a certain air of amazement. "He looks just like new, doctor!"

I ruffled his hair. "Let us go indoors and make a toast to the success of the procedure."

When Holmes strolled into the kitchen, he found Mathias getting bounced on my good knee, shaking with riotous laughter. At the recovery of his bear, he and I had become good chums. Holmes raised an amused eyebrow at the scene, and told the child nestled in my lap, "Your mother wishes to see you." Mathias bounced off my lap, hugged my leg with all the dear affection of a child and raced upstairs, crying, "Mama! Mama!"

I grinned at Holmes. "Perhaps I should expand my practice to include bear repair."


	19. Admirable

Watson praises me quite extensively.

He is terrible about undervaluing himself.

Should someone ask me, I would tell them quite calmly Watson's admirable qualities.

Watson is a practical whereas I am not; he is an ideal flat mate, having an innate sense of when I wish a companion in the study and when his presence would distract me from my work. He is perhaps the most determined man I have ever met, albeit myself when on the case. He has a deep sense of honor, and clear patriotism. He calls himself simple, and perhaps to readers he may seem so in comparison to me; but I am not an average man, and neither is he. Watson is quite intelligent. If you doubt me, take Letsrade and Gregson—ordinary men—and compare them to him. As I have been alluding, he is extremely modest. He is a fine doctor—I cannot say how many patients have visited to thank him in person for his services, services I have been fortunate to enjoy as well. He is extraordinarily kind—to the Yarders, to patients, to strangers, to friends. I believe his overabundance of gentility may very well make up for my lack of decorum and for that I am thankful. Patience is a trait of his I have benefitted greatly from, for many a lesser man would have moved out early in our relationship at my quirks and fickle temper, and Watson is rarely angry when others would have raged. Then, what I think of when I think of Watson, what is intertwined with his nature: he is the most loyal chap you will ever meet. Watson may say that he is of very little value to me, but I repeat: I am lost without my Boswell.


	20. July 7th

Watson scowled. "Holmes, I'm not getting to work today."

"Why?"

Watson drew back the blind.

"My God!" Holmes cried.

Watson shook his head. "There's more every year. Blast those fangirls for remembering my birthday!"

**...Shortest yet. Us fangirls would throw a kick-butt party for the doctor!**


	21. Remembrance

Dear Hamish,

It's been a year now. I was never good at expressing my feelings in words, but writing is simpler and more honest. I know we hadn't spoken in years before you died. It was the drink that did it, that evil substance that took you over until the person I knew was eclipsed. I regret turning away, giving up on you before you were gone. At your funeral I remembered you when I was seven and you were eleven, when I was old enough to be a conspirator in pranks and you were young enough your little brother didn't irritate you with his eagerness. And we spent so many happy hours getting into mischief and neglecting our lessons. You were always quick and witty, with a certain carelessness I wish Father had disciplined more before it grew out of proportion. I remember I got too medical and stern in my condemning of your addiction. We were both prideful fools, with the headiness of youth to further our anger. Mother and Father were dead and we should have remained a family instead of accepting there was no one to force us to make up like in the old days. But things cannot be changed and the dead cannot be resurrected, so I am leaving this letter on the earth you lie under and hoping the angels will carry the message to you. I am wiser now. That, at least came from this. I hope you like the spot I choose for the burial, the family plot in Scotland. You loved our visits here. "I can breathe easier," you said. It is very beautiful, with the mountains like kings reigning the heavens and the brooding sky.

I remember you fondly.

I promise to come back every year.

Love,

John

**This drabble idea popped into my head when I realized that Watson never addresses his grief about his brother. I gathered Hamish as a name because it was one, the initial on the watch, and two, it would make sense for Watson's dad to name one son after him and the other have the name as a middle name.**

**...I'm angsty lately, aren't I?**


	22. Wordwielder

Watson sat at the desk chair and spun. "Here's an ideal opportunity to find out about the girl's character, as it is obviously a girl," He suggested to the lean, tall figure glancing about the room philosophically. "We have a wait."

Holmes smiled. "Excellent idea. Well," he began at the door. "She is clearly a lover of theatre. Look at the two drama masks upon the door and the paintings of famous actresses." He stooped and examined the beauty products on the ground behind the door. "She is evidently past the age of 12 due to the make-up here, but still a teenager from the décor of the room. The laptop on the desk corroborates this."

"How so? Don't many people have those these days?"

"It is true people do often have their own laptops," Holmes agreed. "However, look at the conditions of the actual computer. She has only had it recently. It is a ThinkPad, which is a very advanced, scholarly type. This suggests it was purchased for scholarly reasons. A student does not require their own laptop for school work until at least middle school. Since it is new, it suggests this year's coursework was a sudden increase from previous years. The more definite increase in difficulty is upon the entrance to high school. Thus, she is 14 or 15. This also suggests intelligence, as does the surplus of books in the room and her stack of school things, which is quite high, telling us she is in honors classes. She is well-loved as well as loving, and loyal—observe the abundance of pictures of family and friends, some several years old. She is practical—see how she has burned most of her own CDs instead of purchasing them. She is most certainly a budding author outside of fanfiction, as the emblem on that ceramic has a pen decoration, there is a notebook in the bed, she has a flash drive with obvious signs of wear, and the pencil cup on the desk is full. That she clearly enjoys reading and writing tells me she excels in English. She is tidy and organized in her habits—her books are organized by size and her clothes are categorized into types in the closet. She is a diabetic—see the test strip in the sheets? She loves animals—she has pictures of both present and past pets, a painting of a cat, and her fish is extremely fat. She has a definite sense of humor, which I judge from the comedy movies and shows stacked by the TV. She doesn't trouble herself with new technology; her phone, iPod, and television are all older models. She is sentimental; note the keepsakes placed where she can she them. She is also—" Here he smiled— "A great fan of ours. Note how the volumes of our adventures are on the front of the shelf, and both spines are heavily creased from much reading. There is much more I could say, but that gives you an overview of this Wordwielder."

Watson smiled. "Seems a good sort."

Holmes listened. "I think me may know in a moment."

Wordwielder coughed upon entering her room; Holmes had filled it with sulfurous smoke from his pipe. Through the haze she froze.

"OHMYGODHI!" She bounded to Sherlock Holmes and gave him the shock of his life by hugging him like a teddy bear until he quite couldn't breathe. "Is Watson here too?" She demanded. Then she saw him too, squealed and practically hopped into his lap in her excitement. "This is so great!" She exclaimed. "Any reason you're here? Not that I mind, just wondering. I love you guys."

"So Holmes has deduced," Watson chuckled.

Wordwielder cocked her head. "Really? Oooh, what was it? Is it because the books are right in the front of my shelf?"

Sherlock nodded. "Partially."

She turned to Watson. "So. How would you feel about a club about loving you that has jackets?" *

Holmes looked mildly offended.

"Don't get me wrong!" Wordwielder amended. "We love you too! But you kinda disapprove of women and love, so…"

"Ah. Well, then, carry on."

Watson cleared his throat. "Well…"

***Shout out to PGF! References my first review from her: "I envy [Mary] so much it isn't even funny. I'm sure there are lines of girls who envy her...We should start a club with jackets."**


	23. A Study in Drunkenness

Lestrade was an indignant drunk: loud, complaint-prone, and demanding.

Gregson was, frankly, a flirtatious drunk, and it didn't matter the gender of the other person. Unfortunately, all his friends would remember his behavior if nothing else the next morning.

Watson was an emotional drunk, prone to declarations of affection and tears.

It took a LOT to get Mycroft tipsy, but he was a silly, happy drunk.

Holmes was an eloquent, clumsy, mean drunk.

Mrs. Hudson had to deal with them all when they crashed in 221B.


	24. Hangover

The sunshine brightening the room in the morning usually put Watson in a cheery mood, but today it seemed a beacon of pain as it incited a migraine The pain buzzed behind his eyes. "Ahhh…" He groaned. He shifted, and kicked something solid. Sherlock Holmes' grey eyes opened and observed him through a sheen of confusion. Watson jumped. "God above! Holmes, why are you in my bed?"

Holmes blinked and furrowed his brow. "I couldn't say…" He smoothed his disheveled hair and disappeared to go change into fresh clothes. He returned with the answer: "I was in your bed because Lestrade and Gregson are in mine."

"Why are they in…?"

"Because Mycroft is on the couch."

Watson gasped. "We couldn't have gotten that drunk…." A vague recollection of sobbing into Mrs. Hudson's dress came back to him. "Yes, we could have. How did we get up here?"

Their eyes widen. "Mrs. Hudson!"

Watson bites his lip. "Let's pray she is merciful and we don't get evicted."

"The logical chance of that is not very high," Holmes pointed out gloomily.


	25. Gloves

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, her voice making frost seem as toasty as a fire, "Doctor Watson."

Watson avoided her eyes. He couldn't remember the last time she went through the formality of 'Doctor Watson.' They were evicted, without a doubt.

"We need to chat."

"We should go," Lestrade ventured.

"I will get your coats," Mrs. Hudson said sharply. "_I _do not neglect my duties. You two— come along."

Watson widened his eyes at Holmes. "Do not panic," Holmes murmured.

"I'm trying," he whispered back.

She faced them like a military commander at the door. They all flinched. "I may as well to speak to the rest of you," she said. "You—" she pointed to Gregson. "You ought to be ashamed. Trying to flirt with a woman as old as your mother! Really! And you—" She whirled to Lestrade. "I am not your nanny, mother, or wife, and I did not appreciate you ordering me about as if I was. Elder Mr. Holmes, I can sincerely say I hope to never hear you sing opera again. It was unpleasant, at the very least." She brusquely handed them each their coats, and opened the door. "And good day, gentlemen!" Holmes and Watson began to back up to their rooms while they could, but she cried: "Get back here this instant!" They crept back, keeping their faces downcast. "You two especially," she chided. "Doctor, my apron was ruined by your incessant sobbing. And you, Mister Holmes, broke my grandmother's china dish and had the nerve to tell me it was only a piece of expensive glass! You are entirely too old to act like college boys."

"Mrs. Hudson," Watson began. "We are so sorry."

"We promise it will never occur again," Holmes swore.

"It best not, or I will renting out the flat to some nice quiet boarders and putting you two out in the street!" She marched into her domain of the kitchen. They waited. It was eerily silent after the yelling. Holmes rubbed his forehead. "I have a horrible migraine."

"Good!" Mrs. Hudson yelled.

Watson replied, "I believe it's time we crash into bed—separate ones, this time."

Mrs. Hudson re-emerged with two sets of rubber gloves. "Oh, I think not. You will be doing dishes with me."

They contemplated escape, but both meekly took the gloves.


	26. Brawl

"Doc!" Wiggins panted; his voice was thick with the blood rushing out of his nose. "We needs ya!"

"Good heavens," Watson ejaculated at the sheer mass of street urchins pouring into his sitting room at this late hour, all of them bruised, bloodied, and in desperate need of bandages. "What in the name of God has Holmes got you doing?"

"Not 'im," Wiggins explained. "We got into a bit of a spat wif some twats loungin' in our alleyway and unluckily they was a lot bigger."

"There was more of em," Johnny added.

"So, we 'auled out of there, and Tim says, 'Ay, we need a doc,' and we came straight 'ere," Wiggins finished. "Our 'pologies if we're not convenient."

"No, I don't have a patient in nearly so dire a situation as you. Let me fetch some supplies. Sit." He hurried into his room, grabbed his bag, and returned brandishing gauze. "Wiggins, I'll take you first before you ruin my wife's rug with bloodstains." He steered the boy into a chair and clamped his fingers over Wiggins' nose to staunch the bleeding. "Now, put your hand where mine is and pinch. No, don't lean back—tilt your head forward just a little. Now, how much blood have you lost?"

Wiggins frowned. "As much as you saw comin' out from Merchant Street to 'ere."

"Keep hold for at least five minutes." He handed him a towel bound around some ice. "Over the nose and cheeks. Good lad. I'll check on you in a minute." He turned to the others. "Anyone think they've got a broken bone?"

Tommy moaned. "Me wrist, doc. I got thrown onto it and I fell kina funny…"

Watson winced as he ran his fingers over the afflicted appendage. Oh, it was broken all right. "Tommy, I'll have to set this back in. It won't be pleasant."

"I can take it, Doctor," he said valiantly.

"I think some sedatives might not be overdue."

Tommy was glad he had agreed when the doctor yanked it back into place.

Watson rigged a crutch for the boys whose ankles had been twisted or sprained. He cleaned and bandaged numerous wounds, some superficial and just painful and others deep and raw with blood. Poor Tim had two rib fractures, which Watson bandaged and then gave him some painkillers dissolved in a glass of tea. He dabbed blood off of fat lips as gently as possible, and supplied ice pack after ice pack. He sent the boys to sponge themselves clean, keeping an eye on them to ensure they really were bathing properly, and provided some old clothes for them to dress in. The reward was biscuits, and the Irregulars never refused free food.

Wiggin, who had been attended to fully, was rather cheerful. "Could be worse, ay, doc? No broke arms or legs. We'll look a real mess tomorrow I fancy, but the bruises and black eyes will fade soon enough."

"Perhaps next time be less enthusiastic in recovering your territory," Watson suggested as he prepared his needle to stitch up Rob's stubborn wound.

Wiggins replied in his most indignant tone, as though he had been seriously insulted, "Oi, change our principles over one little brawl?"


	27. Biscuits

At the coarse yell from the floor level of the apartment, accompanied by an ominous smell of smoke, I abandoned my writing and hurled myself down the 17 stairs of Baker Street. I swung around the corner and into the kitchen where Holmes was examining the charred lump in the pan. He grimaced at me, with the explanation, "Mrs. Hudson makes biscuits look so easy."

**...goodness, that was short. I'm a Yankee, so when I say biscuits I mean bread, but I understand that in Britain they call what we call cookies biscuits. Any Brits out there, correct me if I'm incorrect. Either way, doesn't matter. Moral of the story: It's better when Mrs. Hudson cooks.**


	28. Pysche

Watson frowned at Wordwielder. "Don't publish that. I don't need the entire fanfiction world exposed to my psyche."

Holmes laughed. "Everyone writes about _my _psyche."

Wordwielder shrugged. "It's fun, okay?" She added, "You know, experts think you had mental disorders. Maniac-depressive disorder, or Asperger's, and the whole distrust/dislike of women is because of PTSD from a bad thing in your childhood, probably a family trauma. Or, you know, all of them."

"You know too much about us," Holmes muttered.

"I DO NOT!" Wordwielder protested loudly.

Watson was giving his friend a peculiar look. "You have symptoms of all of those…"

Holmes glared at Wordwielder. "Thank you. The doctor will be subjecting me to terrible mental health tests because of you."


	29. Fever

"I'm sorry!" Watson screams. His voice drops lower and lower with each plea: "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

Sherlock Holmes is not the recipient of his apology; he doesn't even know who the doctor addresses. It's someone only Watson's glazed-over eyes can see. "I tried…I tried," he pants. "I tried…why wouldn't you listen? Why?" He tries to rise again, but Sherlock pushes him down into the pillows. "It's alright, old fellow," he soothes.

"Mary?" Watson questions, his hand groping to touch the person dabbing the sweat off his face.

"No, Watson," Sherlock says gently. This isn't the first time he's asked for Mary.

"Mary's dead," Watson says unexpectedly.

Holmes pauses. This is a conundrum. If he says yes, Watson will most likely go into a fit. If he says no, Watson will either experience brief delusion culminating in anger at the deception or become pale and listless again before the fever flares.

"She's dead," Watson repeats. "Am I dead?"

"Certainly not!" Don't even think it.

"Good," he mumbles. "I'm not in heaven, and I thought hell would be a bit extreme...for a simple Boswell…"

"You're very worthy of heaven," Holmes promises.

"Hmm…" Watson sighs before slipping into a fevered sleep. Act 1 is over, and they have reached the interlude. Act 2 will come soon, and Watson will punch and kick and screech with war, and sob with memory, and revert to a child whining that if Hamish is excused he should be too, but for now there is rest, and Holmes is glad.


	30. Argument

**"It was hardly an appeal to be sucessful with one who was an old campaigner as well as an old friend. We sat in the Strasbourg _salle-a-manger_ arguing the question for half an hour..." ~The Final Problem**

"I tell you it is dangerous! Moriarty is no joke!"

"I never claimed him to be," Watson retorted. "I tell you I am by no means returning to cower in London with him at your heels miles away."

"I can take care of him, and myself."

"You can, but won't, because I will not allow it."

"Watson," Holmes begged. "I shall never forgive myself if something happens."

"I shall never forgive myself if something happens either!" He fired back.

"Nothing shall happen to me!"

"Nothing shall happen to you because I'll be with you to ensure it."

"No, you will not!"

"Moriarty may be a dangerous man," Watson said calmly. "A clever man. But I've faced battles and murderers and lived to tell the tale. The two of us against the one of him is surely even."

Holmes brainstormed new ways to present the logic. Watson had ignored everything he said. Everything, even with the clear sensibility of his words. Loyalty was a quality he prized in Watson—but stubbornness was not. The man could be as tenacious as bulldog when he got his teeth in something, and he surely did now.

"I will be coming." Watson said, with steady voice and his same dependable mannerisms.

Holmes nodded, displeased but recognizing he could do nothing else to convince him. "If you must."

"I must," he replied. "Now, we really must leave this room and allow the staff to the clean the table. We'll miss the train to Geneva."

Nothing would happen to Watson. By God, nothing would.

**"...but that same night we had resumed our journey and were well on our way to Geneva." To anyone who ever imagined that argument.**


	31. Watson's Woes

Watson paced. "'Watson's Woes?' Why me? I suffer enough in the canon—gunshots! Death! Violin music! I deserve a break! But these fanfictioners torture me because—I don't know!" He looked helplessly at Wordwielder.

"Hm." She scribbled something. "What do you say to these fanfictioners?"

He squinted. "Are you writing this down?"

"I'm just helping you out!"


	32. Gift

Tobias Gregson was a largely imperturbable man. But he admitted to astonishment when Holmes, who had previously been grinning from the successful end to a troublesome case, stopped in the middle of the street, in the full path of cab that thank goodness swerved, and swore, "Damn it!"

Gregson blinked. He had never heard Holmes ever get flustered enough to swear. "My God, man," he replied, "Have you been stung?"

Holmes groaned. "It would be better if I had."

"What?"

"I've forgotten to get Watson a birthday present. Again."

"Will he be angry?"

"No—I'd prefer that. He'll be terribly understanding, not even disappointed, _chuckle_ over my forgetfulness…."

Holmes eyed the corner shoppe. "Goodbye, Gregson. I've got some last minute shopping to do."


	33. Hacker

"You won't get far," Holmes promised as he advanced on the desperate man, whose hand was shaking as it pointed the gun. "Say you shoot me. Watson has me covered. Say you shoot Watson; Scotland Yard is right outside, not that I'd let you get past me after such an act. You can't escape. It'd be best to lower your weapon."

"Right," Hugh Wilkes snarled. "You know as well as me Scotland Yard is gullible. Maybe I shoot you both and get out scott free."

"Oh, I don't think so," a voice said pleasantly. Holmes and Watson exchanged surprised looks as Wilkes gasped, "And who's this?"

The girl, out of place in her jeans and Aeropostale jacket, strode in and shook out her ponytail. "Wordwielder's the name. Pleased to make your acquaintance." She nodded to the heroes. "Holmes, Watson."

"What are you doing here?" Holmes hissed.

"We were under the impression we could go forward but you couldn't go back." Watson explained more politely.

She shrugged. "I hacked my way into this decade. It's a complicated process. I'll explain later."

"Wordwielder, dear, this isn't the safest—" Watson protested.

"It's fine, I'm pretty sure that—don't get any ideas," she snapped at Wilkes as he raised his gun a millimeter. "I don't have a gun but I can scream bloody murder and get every cop within a mile in here. And—" She held out her pencil like a knife. "I can write out a very bad, very bloody death if you don't cooperate. I have influence over the entire Holmesian London."

Wilkes looked at them in disbelief. "A bloomin' American has influence over all of London?"

She grinned. "Not any bloomin' American. A bloomin' fanfic writer."

**Tell me if you're getting irritated with me busting my way into these drabbles. They're just easy to find inspiration for and hilarious to write :) And, guys, GUESS WHAT? I was in Englids today and one of the problems had the sentence "Holmes knew Moriarty was close." IT MADE MY LIFE!**


	34. Reason

Holmes crosses his legs, basking like a serpent in the glowing warmth of the fire. Watson's eyes tell the story of his thoughts: he is remembering. And that makes Holmes ask something he is morbidly curious about:

"What did you say at my funeral?"

Watson's head jerks in amazed terror. "How did you possibly know—?"

Holmes half-smiles in self-deprecation. "I'm afraid I did not know that, my dear Watson. It is simply what I was wondering."

Watson leans back and turns his head at an angle that hides his face. "It is difficult to remember," he answers slowly. "It was not long. I could only get through so much." He closes his eyes and says, "'Sherlock Holmes was a man I have had the great honor of calling my friend. He will never know how much I owe him—for giving me purpose after the war, for helping me at my worst, for Mary. Holmes was not just a genius; he was a good man, a better man than many took him for, and London as well as myself will never be the same without him. He will be missed by everyone here and many more besides.'" He shakes his head. " I was disappointed with it. I felt like…" he hesitates. "Like I could have said so much more."

Holmes clasps his hand. "You said enough." He studies him. "Were you truly thinking of that?"

Watson hesitates. "Just all the funerals…" his voice is soft. "I nearly killed myself, you know."

Holmes starts. He remembered signs; neglected clothes, a certain distracted air….but his is the first he has heard Watson mention of it—though logically it was sensible, _Watson_... Watson is the most vital man he knows. Watson continues, "There was nothing left, you have to understand. Dead parents, dead brother, dead wife, dead child, dead friend. The practice was the only thing intact, and what was that? How many doctors are there in London?" Watson shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. "You came back at the right time, Holmes. I hadn't made any plans or anything drastic like that. It was just a thought that wouldn't leave me alone; why? Why keep existing when there was no reason to?" He smiles at his friend. "There was a reason. It just hadn't come back and made me faint yet."

**Sorry guys. You thought was just gonna keep up the humor streak...time to make you cry again! Just this though, I swear. I'm not gonna go all angsty arc...again... **


	35. Johnlock?

"How do you feel about the abundance of Johnlock* in the fanfiction world?" Wordwielder questioned.

Watson blinked. "I am not familiar with this term. Holmes?"

Holmes puffed his pipe. "It is clearly a combination of our names, though I cannot say for what purpose. What is this, Wordwielder?"

Wordwielder bit her lip and deliberated. "Nothing," she said at last, her voice queer as if she were about to laugh, before throwing herself furiously into typing.

The two men exchanged blank looks and shrugged.

***I was told this is the official name. I seriously would not know. I thought, "They would have no idea what that is," ...and then hopped in a plot bunny. I'm debating to continue this one with Holmes cracking the code and being horrified. Review and tell me if you want to see that! Actually, feel free to send me any suggestions anytime, or request an expansion on a drabble.**


	36. Code Cracked

The typewriter sound was staccato as Holmes paced and I continually got distracted enough to stop my work and turn around to see what he was puzzling over. I had no gratification at any time—no letters clamped in his fists, not any difficult cases I knew him to be working, not any frustrated murmurings. My work was coming at the speed of a tortoise. In a half hour I had typed half a page. "What is it?" I asked at last.

He was slow to answer, but never stopped his circle around the room. "It's this Johnlock. I simply must know what it means."

"And you intend to deduce it," I smiled. "You only pace when you need to think something through."

He at last sat. "It is a fanfiction term. That much we know. It is something Wordwielder is aware off, but not something she approves of. Her body language said as much. She was curious to our reaction, which leads me to believe it is not something would most definitely please us—she would know— though it could be. It involves both of us. Our names together."

"If she disapproves," I suggested. "Then she has never written it."

"Correct, Watson. Let's see what she has written…" He jotted notes as he recalled. "Not a case. Not a friendship occurrence." His body went rigid with realization. He choked, and I rushed to my friend, concerned. He edged away from me, horror etched on his features. His voice was grim when he spoke: "I've gotten it, Watson, and I can say truly this is the first time I wish I _hadn't_ solved a puzzle."

**Hopefully you guys laughed as much reading this as I did writing it!**


	37. Reverse

The man slipped past us, obviously unaware of our presence. My friend touched my shoulder to tell me to hold back my lunge. Wait, his eyes said. So I waited. My years in the military had taught me obedience, and this applied especially to something like this. The fellow knelt at the window, noiselessly raised it, and withdrew a service revolver. He was stout and of middle height, mustached, and carried with him a disturbing determination and grim excitement. He cocked the gun and slid it out through the window. "Revenge," I half-imagined him mutter as he pulled the trigger. The gunshot pierced the glass and no doubt the dummy as the man howled with satisfaction. "For you, my friend," he murmured as he removed his hat. "I shouldn't have failed you the first time." The grip on my shoulder tightened, and we both sprang. We felled the man, but he rose, grabbing my partner by his throat, and if I had not been there to hit him with the rifle it may have ended differently. The policemen rushed in and bound the man, who submitted to the handcuffing but rose haughtily, without help. His eyes were fixed upon my friend with unrivaled hatred and not surprise. "You clever fiend," he spoke bitterly to my companion, who had an eyebrow raised.

"This man," Professor Moriarty explained, turning to me, "My dear Colonel, is Dr. John H. Watson, once of Her Majesty's army in Afghanistan, and the right-hand man of Sherlock Holmes. He has been our stalker since the death of Mr. Holmes."

With a roar, the doctor knocked past the police and lunged at Moriarty. The policemen grabbed him and with great difficulty restrained him. "How dare you!" He snarled. "Say his name so carelessly!"

"I was expecting you, Doctor," Moriarty replied coldly. "You have none of your friend's discretion."

"I was foolish to attempt to kill you. If Holmes was your match mentally, I am much less. But I would be a disgrace to have let you return to your life so easily." Watson spat. "I will go with you, officers. I admit I attempted the life of this person and I am an honorable enough man to submit to the law."

Moriarty and I returned to his office at the university. He retrieved some notes, "Ah, Watson. A perfectly ordinary fellow, but remarkable in some respects." He passed me the notes, which I glanced over. "He was a good soldier," I replied, somewhat surprised, "And a fine doctor."

Moriarty shrugged. "That is not what is remarkable." He tossed me a notebook, this one of the deceased Holmes. "Look at the end."

I scanned over brief notes describing the role of Watson in Holmes' life.

"I fail to see anything remarkable," I admitted.

"The man is as loyal as a dog," the professor answered. "He began to room with Holmes after being wounded in the Afghan war, about 1881. He lived there for eight years, married, and still was a frequent visitor to Baker Street. He was the acquaintance I employed you to distract while I took on Holmes. He was the man's closest friend—a brave man, a strong man, a loyal man, and that made him a dangerous man. For us, the second most dangerous in London. He's been on our trail since Reichenbach falls, quite determined to avenge his friend."

I shook my head. "I don't know why," I remarked. "Holmes was such a fiend—the most clever criminal in the world. We did London a favor at those falls."

"Do not judge him too rashly," Moriarty reminded me. "Their bond was not unlike ours. Perhaps if Holmes had dedicated his life to good and we had chosen a separate path, we would be the same. Perhaps then…if he had turned his talents for good, he would have become the bane of all criminals. Such a waste," Moriarty sighed. "Ah, but now he's gone, once again Professor James Moriarty can devote his life to mathematics and London's little problems."

** *SPOIlER DO NOT READ BEFORE FI NISHING DRABBLE* Okay, did anyone guess where I was going before they saw Moriarty? This just popped into my head- what if Holmes was the criminal mastermind and Moriarty the famous detective?**

** Review!**


	38. Felonies and Misdemeanors

**I'm back! I apologize for abruplty stopping the one a day drabble flow. I've had writer's block and no time. Not a good combination.**

I flipped through my notes and frowned. Immediately, Holmes noticed. "Watson?" he inquired.

"It's a frightening thought," I said thoughtfully, "How many times I could have gone to jail since 1881." Holmes grinned. "That's why I never became a detective. Then I would have an obligation to obey the law."

"And to take on uninteresting cases," I teased.

"Watson?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you…"

I smiled. 'Wouldn't take back anything."


	39. Stitches

**My goodness, this is beyond short. I'm not sure it should even count.**

Blood upon the rug would alarm most people.

Many would scream.

Watson did not. He poured a brandy, retrieved his medical bag, and entered the room with the question, "How many stitches?"

Holmes blinked.

Watson nodded. "That many."


	40. Break In

**I adore you guys. This little drabble story has over ONE HUNDRED reviews! 3**

"What in the name of God, Holmes?" Watson demanded. "At Baker Street it was one thing; but here you cannot burst in here in the middle of the night! What if you had woken my wife?"

Holmes eyed the sleeping form. "But she sleeps," he replied. "I couldn't knock on your door this late; I'd wake half the street, and the wrath of Londoners is immediate. Unfortunately, since I demonstrated how easily I could pick your lock, and your first thought was robbery, you've put on a much more satisfactory one. I had to scale your drainpipe; I was right in thinking you wouldn't lock second-floor windows."

Watson had an incredulous smile forming on his face. He shook his head, chuckling, and asked in his practical way, "Well, what was so important?"

"There's a most singular case brewing in Surrey…"

Watson grinned. "Let me get my coat." He rose from the bed. "Oh, and write a note," he added, looking at his wife.

He scribbled something, changed, and met Holmes at the door. The street was beginning to revive as the sun slipped into the sky. Holmes looked up at the window into the room where a woman slept unaware, and thought, _Poor thing._

It was lucky for Watson he had married a woman as patient as himself.

**Could reference either Mary or his unnamed second-wife. She was my intention, but that patience line just seems so very Mary.**


	41. Stare

**Inspired by a PM convo I was having with Hades Lord of the Dead (who is amazing, btw) about Chapter 15 "Party." She said, "I wonder if Holmes ever stares back...?" AND IN HOPPED A PLOT BUNNY! So yeah, I'd call this a companion piece, but it's not strict. **

The great detective eyed his opponent. A strong, stubborn man, but he would overcome him. He watched, his eyes never wavering.

Watson knocked over his ink. "My God, your lack of blinking is almost frightening," he remarked. He scowled at the ink seeping into his paper. "And most distracting."

Sherlock Holmes smiled.

"Oh, no, you don't," Watson retorted. "I refuse, Holmes, and that is not going to change!"

But even determined Afghan veterans can't hold out forever. Finally, Watson yelled, "Alright, point taken. I apologize for moving your papers off the chair. Please, please, just look somewhere else!"

Holmes settled back, with a triumphant grin. Watson groaned. "I regret so much teaching you that."

Holmes just replied, a bit smugly, _"I knew you'd come around."_

**Heavens, this took me so long to update because apparently there's something *wrong* with my file. I had to use an old doc... Anyway, review and I'll love you forever!**


	42. Morality

"Holmes, I absolutely refuse to pander to your dramatics."

"It's not pandering. It's justice."

"It's justice half-frighten a woman to death by telling her she's contracted her husband's fatal disease?"

"I would remind you that she purposefully inflicted him with the disease. Murder, Watson!"

"Couldn't you just tell her you know she did it?" Watson said, irritated.

"Yesss…" He inclined his head and argued, "But really, this is a terrible woman. I've found in cases like these…"

"It goes against my ethics as a doctor," he said firmly. "Let the matter rest."

"You are the most obstinate person to walk the earth!"

"And you're more than a touch obstinate yourself," he answered with a touch of irony.

"Damn morality," Holmes muttered crossly.

**Probably really out of character, but I laughed so much writing it it had to be put on. **


	43. Eat

**Well...angsty. Yeah. I can get out some six humor pieces and then I add a little angst. Trying to appeal to all the Holmesians, I guess.**

"Please eat something."

It was a common plea at Baker Street, but the person speaking it was not the common person. Watson sat inhumanely stiff in his chair, his eyes dark and slanted with lack of sleep. His hands' veins seemed more pronounced than usual, Holmes noted. "Stop nagging me!" Watson snapped. "I will eat when I am hungry, thank you."

"It's been too long since you were hungry," Holmes countered sharply. "Just some broth. I won't leave on this Rutherford case without knowing you're not going to faint."

"I've never fainted in my life," Watson declared. *****

"Eat the broth!"

"No."

"Then get some rest!"

"No."

"There was nothing you could do, Watson. The woman was half-dead before they even called for you."

"It's my job to do something!" Watson yells. "If not for her, then the child…" He was silent. "There are some that shouldn't have children. They aren't strong enough, are too small, like children themselves, really. Of course, they're the ones that love them the most, and the ones determined to beat the odds. They're the worst cases I have. I can never forget them." He looked up. "Idleness puts you in states like this. For me it's guilt."

**First person to tell me why this is a sigficant sentence wins...cookies! (Virtual!)**


	44. Black Coffee

**Lestrade prefers his coffee sugared ;)**

Sherlock Holmes surveyed the room. "Hmph. Was the window latched, Lestrade?" He trained his eyes on me. I nodded, cowed under the hawk-like gaze, with I as the mouse. "Yet, the dust is disturbed," he murmured. "What does that suggest, Watson?" I blinked, as we were the only two in the room. "Mr. Holmes?" I inquired. "The doctor isn't—"

Holmes scowled. "Of course. The honeymoon. Let us proceed then."

I grimaced inwardly; every Yarder knows that Sherlock Holmes is coffee, and Watson sugar, and the drink tastes much better with the sugar to temper the bitterness. Oh, this would be a long, demeaning case. I replied, with all the valor of London policeman, "Yes, let us."

**And the winner of my little contest is Spockologist, who was the first to recognize that Chapter 43 was set prior to Empty House because Watson had never fainted. So here's your cookie! And TheOneWithAnAccountThatWon'tFunction, you get a slightly smaller cookie as secnd place :)**


	45. Answers

"What is this?" Watson cried as he stepped into Baker Street, shaking the rain from his umbrella. Holmes looked up at him with an amused grimace. "This, my dear Watson, is the result of the Wordwielder's fanfiction, specifically chapter 31. Here—the note explains." Watson read aloud:

_"'Dear Holmes and Watson,_

_Remember that whole why do fanfictioners torture Watson debate? Well, I have an answer. Um, a lot of answers. I've been receiving notes from EVERYWHERE explaining people's reasons they write Watson's Woes. I thought you might be interested, so I forwarded them through a very complicated method involving time. The letters may be slightly singed, please don't ask me to explain. Enjoy!_

_Good luck,_

_Wordwielder.'_

"Well, that explains the smoke," Watson remarked. He looked in distaste at his boots, buried in envelopes. "And the post."

Holmes smiled. "Shall we read?"

**Should they? Hm? What are the fans' answers? YOU DECIDE! :D**


	46. Before

Holmes delicately slit open the first letter….

Just as another popped up next to him, in the unmistakable scrawl of Wordwielder.

_Hey, Watson—_

_Before you open your fan mail, please read this. I'm hoping it gets there before you start. It is a message I believe sums up the feelings of many fangirls, from my friend Spockologist. _

**_Watson, before you read those letters, I want you to know that I love you and the whole reason why I write what I do is because you're flipping amazing and we are going to get married one day._**

**_~Spockologist_**

**_P.S._**

**_Read the letters._**

**_P.P.S_**

**_Don't let Holmes come after me for A) saying I was going to marry you and B) the content of said letters._**

"How the deuce does she send matter through space and time?" Holmes demanded.

Watson chuckled. "Apparently I'm engaged again, Holmes. Though the B in that postscript seems…foreboding…"

Holmes again grasped the letter. "Let us proceed."

**Hey guys! Know it's been a while...school is suffocating lately. But I will get back on track from here.**

**125 reviews is so amazing for this little series. I love you guys, and as long as I have ideas I will write this just for those reviewers!**

**And reminder, I take requests ;)**


	47. Reply

Watson reclined in his armchair, slitting open an envelope, as Holmes read one aloud. "It makes no logic sense," he murmured as he finished the letter, "Why torture you because they love you? That is the majority of these letters' content."

"Oho!" Watson sprang up. "This is a full answer, here! Listen:

'It shows how awesome, modest, and self-sacrificing Watson is.'

"Ah," Holmes mused. "They like it because it exemplifies your most extraordinary and lovable characteristics. Continue."

"'It—"' Watson raised his eyebrows. '"It's nice writing awkward fluff?' What the bloody hell is fluff?"

"I assume we are not referencing pillow fluff, and in that case I haven't the slightest idea."

'"It makes Holmes show he cares,"' Watson finished, with a half-hidden smile. Holmes sighed and clapped his friend's back, with the quiet reply, "That it does, indeed."

Watson sat at his desk and began to scrawl. "I'll have to tell Wordwielder I have my answer."


	48. Shot

I have been shot four times in my life. Twice in warfare, and twice on cases. Only one of this I have ever committed to record; that time was somewhat heroic, and the memory after always warms my heart. But the latter case was much less so. It is also part of the reason Holmes is less than charitable to one Officer Flannigan.

The criminal was a dozen feet to my left, yet somehow the fledging, eager officer managed to shoot me in the foot. It hurt like the devil, I had to pull out that blasted cane from Afghanistan, the perpetrator nearly broke Holmes' nose in the chaos, and as a result of the fiasco Holmes has refused to ever work with Flannigan again. "Bumbling fool," is the kindest mention of him I have heard since. I would like to add that when Holmes saw my foot, that protective instinct I had observed in The Adventure of The Three Garridebs emerged and he beat Flannigan with both his words and the boxing talent I have on occasion mentioned.

I cannot blame him for suspicion with the new trainees now. I myself shift a bit to the right when they aim.


	49. St Valentine

Holmes scowled at the heart-shaped biscuits* Mrs. Hudson had set out. "This holiday is ridiculous," he pronounced. "An excuse for romantic fools to gad about with their lovers and buy silly themed gifts."

Watson laughed. "Well, it's not the first time you've called me a romantic fool. But really, if you won't eat the biscuits, I will. And then I have a lovely evening of gadding about with my lover to attend to."

"St. Valentine was a martyr, not a lover," Holmes snapped. "Even the name is ridiculous."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps I ought to buy you some roses?"

Holmes sighed.

***Cookies in Yankee!**


	50. Ceremony

**OHMYGOODNESS! Fiftieth chapter...that's a milestone, right there.**

Holmes didn't long linger long after the ceremony.

He offered his congratulations to the groom and the bride as warmly as he could muster. He gave a short toast ate reception and kept his voice kind but controlled. He shook Watson's hand before he left, giving the undisputable excuse of a prospective case early on the morrow as the reason for his departure, not the truth, the suffocating environment of merriment; he promised a visit as soon as his rigorous schedule allowed.

He returned to Baker Street, lit his pipe with the distinctive tobacco Watson had purchased for Christmas. His chair was the same ever, the pipe excellent, the atmosphere quite suitable. The gloom would go in time.

Watson's chair, facing him, was conspicuously empty.

**Kinda angsty, that one. Been in my docs foreverrrrr, I just finished it.**


	51. Butter Dish

Watson reached for the knife, grasping until his fingers closed over it, and not looking, slid it through the butter, and began to spread it upon his toast. "There was quite a stir last night, Holmes," He called into the parlor as he scanned the column. "Two inmates killed in solitary confinement, and neither of them even had a weapon…" Holmes replied, inquiring after the presence of guards, and Watson raised the toast to eat, but instead of the action ending in a satisfying crunch, it ended in an enraged shriek: "HOLMES, WHY IS THERE A BLOODY KNIFE WHERE THE BUTTER KNIFE SHOULD BE?"

He cried in triumph: "Ah, that's where I misplaced it!"

**My answer to the unnamed crime relic in the butter dish.**


	52. Deerstalker

**I apologize it's been so long. Writer's block and projects D:**

Holmes examined the gift with a wry smile. This was a package sent by an American; a female, a fangirl, the handwrtiing made both traits quite apparent; it was too small but too large for anything else; by tradition, he knew—

"Another?" Watson inquired, seeing the look upon his comrade's face.

"Another," Holmes acquiesced, tossing the gift into a pile of similar objects. "I imagine you regret hiring Mr. Sidney Paget since his whimsical take on the 'long-eared traveling cap' has amounted to such a massive mound of deerstalkers."

**Because nowhere does ACD mention a deerstalker.**


	53. Women

Watson is quite fond of the fairer sex.

I cannot rationalize why.

They are tittering, painted glass creatures, quivering with the trials of which nanny job to take. They rarely apply the true cunning they possess, cunning I have seen in enough circumstances to know all females have it innately.

Worse still, love is irrational. If a behavior clouds the mind, that behavior should not be indulged. But Watson, large hearted and a dreamer, cannot grasp the simple truth: love tends to life's pleasures but lends no assistance to life's challenges.

Some would call me jaded or unfeeling. I simply know the truth.

**Goodness, that sounds sexist. I'm a girl, guys, I don't think like this!**

**I hope this is fairly IC.**

** Oh, and I finally broke my writer's block. I have six ideas lined up, so you'll be seeing me almost every day again!**


	54. Cocaine

Wordwielder watched Holmes and Watson duel with words. The doctor was protesting a white powder Holmes did not keep around for chemical purposes.

"You're using entirely too often—"

"No proof at all—" Holmes snapped back.

"Hey," Wordwielder spoke up. "Holmes, you do know drugs kill brain cells, right? I mean, of all people, that should matter to you."

Holmes' eyes glittered with horror, a stuck beetle.

"Apparently not."


	55. Quite Mad

Holmes draped despondently in the armchair of the hotel lobby. I turned to the clerk and paid our balance half turned to him, unwilling to take my eyes off Holmes lest he lunge for the window. The puzzle which had seemed so elementary that Holmes was loathe to even travel to Germany to take it on had twisted into an intangible conundrum. Holmes had sunk into depression as his lead fumbled into dust, and we were returning home empty-handed, to a poor and pious woman who had solemnly sent us off with a lilting Irish call of, "I will pray." Holmes muttered, quite visibly, the maniac edge eclipsing the usual controlled, cool gray of his eyes. The clerk stared at him. Holmes snarled at his gaze. I groaned. The clerk eyed me, evidently weighing whether I would bare my teeth at him too. I finished our expenses just as Holmes sprang from the chair, the litheness and energy of the game returned to him. He streaked out the lobby and I sighed. I apologized to the clerk with, "My friend is quite mad."

**I lied; feel free to throw pipes and Persian slippers at me. I cannot believe how fast time goes! So I will get back into my swing. This week is CRAZY and then it slows back down enough I'll have time to entertain you with time travel and crime. Love,**

**Wordwielder **


	56. The Bet

Lestrade kicked Gregson. "Keep your feet over there to your—" he looked at the cramped space Scotland Yard provided him— "office." MacPherson's voice drifted over them. "Canno' believe they've got us working double shift…oy, how'd that head-scratcher of you two's wrap up?"

Gregson and Lestrade frowned in almost militaristic unison. "Bloody Sherlock Holmes got involved, what do you expect happened?" Gregson snapped waspishly.

"Though," Lestrade said to the other lounging investigators, "you'll be quite astonished when you hear…Holmes has taken on a partner!"

Gregson interrupted the gasps with, "I wouldn't call it a partner. But he invited the fellow on the case. His new roommate, did some time in Afghanistan as an army doctor."

MacPherson chortled. "He'll be gone in a month. Sherlock Holmes will blow him up, drive him out, or get him sent to Bedlam."

"It'll be less than a good month," Lestrade disagreed.

MacPherson looked around, eyes glittering with the mischief of a Scotsman. "That so?"

Lestrade brought out his checkbook. "A week."

Bets filled the air as Lestrade and MacPherson shook hands. "Six months, at most…" Inspector Brown whispered. The others smirked and nodded.

**References the bet the Inspectors talk about in Chapt 4, "Years."**

**yeah, sorry this is delayed...finally, play pratice is over, and school's slowed down. I'll be back regularly until exams in May.**


	57. Letter

Dear Kathy,

I have at last found a job that meets my criteria. The hours are not unreasonable, the pay satisfactory, and my duties proportionate. However, the gentleman who hired me may be perhaps the strangest, most mysterious employer I have ever had.

He is a bachelor, who rarely has visitors. He spends long hours at his work. I am instructed to clean house and prepare meals, but since he lives alone it is not taxing. He is not unsociable, though he rarely volunteers information about himself. If I had a medical degree, I'd wager a bit of depression at work. That's not my place to judge, though.

I ran into Mary Market at the butcher's the other day and we got to chatting. When I mentioned my employment at the Watson house she snorted so derisibly my curiosity was aroused. "I'm out on Montague Street now," she said, "but before I found the Turners I applied with Doctor Watson. He asked me my name, turned white when I answered and nearly shoved me out the door." Strange, I say! Strange!

He treats me kindly, and has never berated me except when I mistook the wardrobe I have been explicitly instructed not to ever disturb for his own wardrobe when I was hanging clothes. He entered, saw me gazing in perplexity at the women's clothes, a year or so out of fashion, hanging there, and nearly slammed my face in the door. "I believe you've made a mistake," he said, and I tell you, Kathy, that sentence made my blood run cold, and yet there was not a cruel word in it!

It wasn't until I came across some old editions of the Strand I realized where I recognized the doctor's name—he wrote those Sherlock Holmes stories we used to read back home with Violet Lecher and the other girls. Holmes died, didn't he? Some business about a ledge and a professor. I'm not the prying type, and I value my job, or I'd ask him.

Sincerely,

Molly

** I'm back! Literally, I was at the beach. I'm off on Spring Break now, so expect to see me updating all stories. **


	58. So Be It!

**The Empty House with a dash of Molly the Maid. **

Dear Kathy,

Well! My Lord, I was wrong to think that the old days at the doctor's were strange! To-day I have had the greatest shock of my life, except when Granny sat back up, hollering, under the sheet over her head... after the doctor solemnly declared her dead. But I'm ahead of myself. Well, working for Dr. Watson for as long as I have now—I've grown fond of the dear. He is a nice fellow, as peculiar as he is…was…oh, again I'm ahead of myself!

I shall tell it plainly now. The doctor received a visitor to-day. I nearly spilled my cup of tea all over myself to see this ragged vagabond old man stooped on the porch. My first wild thought was he was a poor tramp begging, and my hand almost went to my purse when I realized the doctor had seen much scruffier people as patients before, like those street urchins he's so fond of. So I let him in, and bade him wait while I announced him to the doctor.

He entered the study and less than five minutes later, an entirely different fellow: a tall, keen man of about the doctor's age, dashed out of the study calling for brandy. I sped into the study and the doctor was sprawled out in a dead faint! "Oh, what have you done to my master!" I cried. When he began to come around the man not exactly tactfully asked me to leave them; and I did. A perhaps half-hour later they walked out of the study. I had never seen the doctor without his aura of melancholy, but now it was utterly obliterated. He seized my hand and laughed as a schoolboy. "Molly!" He fairly sang out. "Sherlock Holmes is alive! Here in London again!" I looked at that Mr. Holmes and frowned at him. "Well, you might have just introduced yourself at the door," I said, "Not in that beggar get-up." The doctor told me they were off on a case and to not prepare dinner and they fairly danced out the door. Men! For me, work remained and I did it before penning this letter to you. Strange events, I have a premonition, will continue to transpire with Mr. Holmes around, and if they lift the doctor's spirit's so, so be it!

Love,

Molly


	59. Flaws of A Watson

Mary Morstan sat as the school-teacher of her youth would have liked. She would ordinarily slouch around those she considered her friends, and she did consider Mr. Sherlock Holmes her friend. But the way his eyes were trained on her made her so self-conscious she sat like a perfect lady. She knew very well Sherlock Holmes did not dislike her, in fact thought her charming and clever enough; she also knew he did not approve of her marrying John Watson. Mary saw enough through the circumstances and cool demeanor to understand why. Sherlock Holmes was solitary in his life until John entered it. He was very attached to John by now, with eight years of memory between them. Of course, he would not express that in words; in smiles and casework he hinted his trust and affection. Thus he was not overly pleased at their happiness, not from unkindness on his part, but loneliness. Mary pitied him, but had an idea to show it would cause him to loathe her forevermore.

She had arrived at 221B to meet John for an evening out together. Mrs. Hudson admitted her with a motherly smile and she entered the sitting room to find Sherlock Holmes bent over some notes and no sign of her beloved. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes," she greeted him. "Is John in?"

"Not yet, Miss Morstan," he replied, in perfect cordiality. "I imagine that a case has gone a bit awry and delayed him. Please sit."

She sat to wait.

Holmes re-immersed himself in his work.

Mrs. Hudson brought tea and cake up. Mary thanked her; Holmes did the same. He broke from his work to sip a cup. Finally, he spoke: "Watson often will work long hours."

"Yes, I know."

"He will return home quite exhausted."

"Yes."

Holmes glanced around and gestured to John's cluttered desk. "He's rather more messy than befits a medical man."

"I can see," Mary laughed.

"He'll smoke in the house."

"As all men do," Mary agreed.

"He can be terribly lazy."

"As all men can," Mary returned. "Yourself included," she added, with a glint in her eyes.

"He gets up at strange hours when he's restless."

"I shall have to adjust."

"He can be a terrible nag."

"I shall simply nag him right back!"

Sherlock Homes set down his teacup.

"Mr. Holmes," Mary said. "I will marry John even with all his flaws, and will enjoy his admirable qualities as well. After all, 'Love conquers all.'"

Holmes nodded. "And may you both be happy."

She smiled at him. "You are welcome at our fireside any time, sir."

**I've gotten really lazy at replying to reviews, so I want to give a huge shout-out to , DoubleEO, Jmaes Birdsong, PGF, Miss Nicol Murder, and especially Spocktologist, who has commented on like every chapter. You all rule! :D**


	60. Umbrella

"Watson," Holmes requested, "Do quit being such a nag."

"I only said to eat something before you go gallivanting about. And it looks of rain outsi—"

"And I only said to quit fussing," Holmes replied as he slipped out the door. "I can fend for myself."

"Not without stitches being necessary," Watson muttered, his reply unheard by his friend, who was already striding out of sight.

Watson had his moment of satisfaction, albeit unsurprised satisfaction, when Holmes returned to Baker Street sopping wet. The greatest detective in the entire world regularly forgotten an umbrella.

**Hello, Sherlockinions! Sorry for the delay...as usual, I've been hugely busy! BUT, after I get through standardized testing, I can promise that it's practically summer for me, but I still have to go to school. So lots of chapters. **

**Just out of curiousity, do I have any non-American reviewers? **

**And thank to Arty for telling me to edit this! This one was written very quickly so it had some issues. **


	61. Revolver

**I am massively beyond sorry. The usual excuses. Throw fruit if you must. But make it good fruit- I hate tomatoes. Anyway, here you go, the LONG awaited return chapter...**

A soldier develops certain habits. They make their bed clothing wrinkle-free and even on all sides. They sit with excellent posture. They are highly respectful and follow orders well—when they trust the order's giver. They like schedules. They hold fast to goals and people. This is especially true close from their discharge. Over time, some things might relax (particularly the neatness) but some lessons a soldier learns keeps with him. I've kept much of the military myself…and since I have come back to the great cesspool, I have never kept my revolver out of sight. My time with Sherlock Holmes has really done nothing to convince me to give up the practice of being armed. Holmes himself is somewhat of a defense enigma. He prefers I handle all weapons, but I have known him to deliver a good wallop with a stick, and he is a considerable boxer and not shy about a good punch to the nose.

He can trust his fists, fine; I will simply continue to sleep with my gun under the mattress.

**...This would usually be the point where I promise to get back into my swing, but I'm starting to think I just jinx myself by saying that. So I promise to _try_ my best to start writing more regularly. **


	62. Bullpup

**Bonjour! Hey, that was only 8 days. Better, no? I finally got ym history project out the way, and school ends in 2 days. I am back, guys!**

When he was a younger, tenser man, John H. Watson and I went into lodging together. I expounded upon my experiments, my tobacco, my mood swings, and my violin; and he in turn revealed his shaken nerves, ungodly timetable, and extreme laziness—in words. In his actions I perceived a good deal of the man behind the amused, slightly puzzled hazel eyes and thin wrists. I judged him a good sort, and I found no objection with his other confession: "I keep a bull pup." I did not anticipate the effects of a canine upon our domestic life.

To begin with—oh, Watson would be mortified to learn the extent of my knowledge of this—Watson was very attached to the creature. More than once I heard him crooning to it much like a man does "a woeful ballad to his mistress' eyebrow" or like a new mother does to her child. The amount of fur on his dressing gown confirmed my suspicions the pup slept next to him. The dog would follow him around the flat and he would pop it into his lap while he read. This was not displeasing to me, in fact rather amusing. But it lead to the pup being so spoiled when Watson was called out the creature would hang around me, staring at me like its life depended on me lavishing it with love. When it got to whimpering for a cuddle, I deposited it into Watson's room. The dog took to yelping at an earsplitting volume. I nearly went mad and it unsettled Mrs. Hudson so much _she _started to take it down to her kitchen and ruin it further. She called it "darling." Its official name was Hamish, after Watson's brother, dead a year earlier, though Watson dubbed it Sport as a nickname. He would often take ruined socks and play tug of war with it, the little dog jumping about and licking at Watson's hands.

Needless to say, Sport adored Watson and loved his Mrs. Hudson. It was me he despised. The locking in dark rooms stuck with him. One day, as I clasped Watson's shoulder, the dog leapt with surprising agility and clamped his jaws around my wrist. The pressure was more intense than I expected, being inexperienced in puppies myself. Watson's eyes traveled from the dog's mouth to my face before bursting into laughter. My face must have given my feelings away because he gave a last chuckle before prying the dog off and scolding him (rather unconvincingly, in my opinion). The minute I took my hand off Watson, Sport stopped growling and wagged his tail. "Diabolical little creature," I muttered. Watson's laugh erupted again.

"He meant no offense, old boy," he assured me.

I looked at the dog. It meant offense. I am quite serious when I say it despised me.

Do give me some credit—I recognized Watson's fragility of mind, body, and spirit, and so tolerated the beast.

I tolerated it for _years. _

Until the creature became Mary's problem.

**So did you guys know a bull pup is a gun? I was searching images for inspiration and alll these weapons popped up. I was like "...what?..." **

**So guess what's cool? I have British, French, and a reader from Singapore! Literally worldwide! Thsi si so cool for this Yankee!**

**Reviews=amazingness. **


	63. Here Comes the Brides

***Only* three days! And hey, I'm officially on summer break. WOOOT!**

"I'm so excited!" Spocktologist squealed to Wordwielder, who adjusted her friend's veil and her own bridesmaid's dress at the same time. "I can't wait to meet my fiancé!"

"Excuse me," a voice said mildly behind her. "I'm afraid he's already married."

Mary Morstan stood behind the two, looking as sweet and pretty as she had in the Sign of Four. "Hold up," Spocktologist said, "You're, erm, deceased."

"Yes," Mary agreed.

"So he's not married."

"Yes he is!" cried another woman.

"Oh, for the love of Holmes," Wordwielder said.

The unnamed second wife stepped out from behind Mary. She was taller, with dark, lustrous hair, possibly Spanish. "He remarried, remember?"

Another woman appeared. This one was a petite redhead. "And I'll have you know…"

"Oh God in heaven," Wordwielder said. "I know his experience spans three continents, but really, WHERE ARE ALL OF YOU COMING FROM?" For there were more old girlfriends joining the fray….

"Watson," Spocktologist muttered, "You have explaining to do!"

**This one was purely for fun, and as a tribute to the lovely Spocktologist. Hey, and to add to the list: a reader from IRAN! This is so neat for me to know I'm reachign people I'd never talkt o otherwise through a shared love of Sherlock Holmes.**


	64. Lonely Holmes Club

**Here's a mirror of Chapter 63 for Sherlock, suggested by sovietbays. Sorry it's a little late, sovietbays!**

Watson has by now lost his naiveté when I announce my engagements, whereas once he would have congratulated me. However, even he never believed me a marrying man. I am not, by heavens. Watson, with his moral obligations, still protests my cruelty to the besotted little maids I charm for information. I do admit it not perhaps kind, but Watson will tell I am not famed for kindness. I am famed for casework, and if I must humble my station in life and speak sweet nothings to a cook I will to solve my cases. That is that. I did have to answer to my actions once in a terribly awkward incident. Watson found it incredibly amusing and called to me as I retreated to my chambers, "Are you familiar with Hinduism's belief in karma, old boy?"

Mrs. Hudson frowned as she informed me of a posse of females waiting to speak to me. I told her to bring them up. It was another time my brain miscalculated, assuming a boarding school for young ladies, perhaps, had employment waiting in their silken purses for me. I had a shock when a snub-nosed, blue-eyed young woman I recognized stepped out, in her maid uniform, and spoke in a course voice, "Mister Sherlock Holmes!"

It was a Miss Betsy Feifer, and I cringed to hear her. I had been briefly her fiancé, under the name Thomas Escott, a rising plumber and a quiet country boy. The quietness suited her purposes, for I spent many hours walking London with her while she spoke of dreams of a warm home and little ones, and told me anecdotes about her childhood. It may seem callous, but I dislike such conversations with people outside of my chosen companionship. She also mentioned a certain Arthur Newell who was vying for her hand. After she gave me the information I needed for my case, our engagement was promptly broken off. Miss Betsy seemed quite upset, but it couldn't be helped.

"Miss Betsy Feifer," I said in my most cordial tones. "Would you sit?"

"I will not!" She cried. "I'm here to make a point and not linger, sir. I and the others who you've done wrong—" here she gestured to the other women in their working clothes. "We find you shallow, unkind, and really very ungentlemanly. I found a good man in my Arthur at least."

The women murmured in agreement.

"But we request you change your ways!"

"Madams," I said. "I apologize for any unkindness I inflicted."

"You ought to," one reproached.

"Well, we're good, attractive, hard-working girls," a redhead I remembered from my early career commented. "And we'll find ourselves love! But you never will!"

The women laughed and departed.

Thank goodness I don't intend to ever find love.

Watson stills laughs about my expression.

**Hey, updating kind of on schedule here! :) and an reader from India now. It'd be so cool to have someone from every continent...**


	65. Mrs Turner?

**Helloooo! I'm back! So, if you haven't noticed, I really like to take the Sherlock anomalies and explain them. Here's one: Who's Mrs. Turner?**

Martha Hudson is a loving, patient woman and I thank God for it, for the sake of both Holmes and myself. But once properly incensed, she can be as frightening as a storybook dragon. And I had properly incensed her, and I blamed Holmes for it.

I was bruised and exhausted after the latest case, but my editor and my patients still demanded my time. I went straight from the Thames where the conclusion of the case had played out, and still damp, went to the practice. From sunup to well after sundown I was administering to the sick, and once I dragged myself to Baker Street to collapse I realized I had to finish typing _A Scandal in Bohemia _immediately, as it was due the following day for editing and publication in the next Strand. I swore, and began to work. Unfortunately, it was that dream-writing that had so infuriated Mrs. Hudson.

"I was half-asleep," I pleaded with my landlady. "It was a true slip. I was thinking about how I was sure to catch flu."

I was desperately appealing to her pity. It worked.

She sighed. "Oh, Doctor… but Mrs. _Turner_?"


	66. What If? Part 1

**Got to say, I'm proud of this one.**

It is strange to reflect upon the road life leads us on, and how the littlest action could ripple and change the course of one's life.

What if I had never gone into medicine? My father was certainly against it. Would I have ever gone to Afghanistan?

What if I died in the battle?

What if after the war I had returned to my family home, not London? What if I had never run into Stramford that day?

What if I had never met Sherlock Holmes? What if I had decided against rooming with him? Would I have ever found Mary?

What if I hadn't gone back to the hotel that day at Reichenbach Falls? Would those lonely three years have never occurred? Would we both have perished fighting Moriarty?

What if I stayed the bachelor, and Holmes himself wed? (A laughable thought…but perhaps, someday yet.) Or what if we both had? Would we have had children the same ages? Little boys to romp together and pester us to come to when the game was afoot? Little girls to sew rips in our suits and ask for kisses?

What if Holmes had stayed in London these last years? Would he still be hunting crime as relentlessly as ever?

Now I am getting on in the years, and I have time to reflect in between quiet nights with my wife and visits to my old friend in the countryside. I thank God for every heartbreak, every questionable choice, every decision I made. For even the worst has brought me the best. The old Afghan bullet, though at the time I cursed it, proved to be a fortuitous wound.

**Next chapter follows the same lines, but for the great detective.**


	67. What If? Part 2

**This chapter is a mirror of the last, from Holmes' POV.**

I am not one for sentimentality, but even I occasionally look back over my life and the improbability of the events that occurred so well.

What if I had been practical and become the chemist my parents expected me to? What if I had taken that job Mycroft offered in the government? Would I have ever been content in my life?

What if I had never swallowed my pride and asked for a flatmate? Would Watson and I have ever met? What if he or I had changed our minds early on?

What if I had allowed myself to consider marriage, or even love? Would the Holmes name carry on?

What if I had never turned to the bottle? What if Watson had not been there to force me off of it when I began to truly need it?

What if I had been pushed over the falls, not Moriarty? Would Watson still grieve? Would London still be wrapped in deceit and trickery and crime centering from the Napoleon's web?

What if I remained in London, and stayed close to my old Boswell? Would I still have clients? Would I still be chasing after criminals day and night?

I am grateful that I made the choices I did. Watson's place in my life depended on the right set of circumstances; my personal happiness depended on courage and independence. Though at the time I was wary of sharing my rooms or my life with anyone, the fact I did has made all the difference.

**So you guys are probably wondering why I'm so productive in the last 15 or so hours; 3 drabbles. Well, tomorrow to the 30th I'm going on vacation. I'm going to get out at least one more of these so while I'm away from my computer there will in fact be updates to get you through.**


	68. Murray

Edward Murray was Watson's orderly in the Afghan War. They worked many hours together over bleeding bodies and broken men and bonded in quiet understanding and like any other soldiers, from the horrors of battle they had seen together. Though I learned it sometime later, after I "glanced over" _A Study in Scarlett,_ Murray saved John Watson's life after he was struck with two Jezail bullets by throwing his body over a packhorse and carrying him over British lines. Murray stopped through London several years into mine and John Watson's acquaintanceship. He entered our study and Watson gave a cry before embracing him. "Murray!" he exclaimed. "It's wonderful to see you again!"

"And you," Murray returned, beaming just as broadly as Watson.

I inferred that he was a military man by his posture and the pin on his lapel, an orderly by the condition of his hands and the skin around his eyes; he was married, though his wife was not on this trip with him; I saw this from the neatness of his suit that a wife had packed and ironed his clothing, though his shoes were dull without someone to polish them as a wife would. Thus he was alone for the present. He had come to find a job, I deduced well before Watson asked the question and he replied in accordance with my theory.

"This is my fellow lodger and friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Watson introduced.

I rose and shook his hand. "How good to meet you," I said, and Murray bowed his head. "Watson has mentioned you in his letters, and your extraordinary powers of deduction. I wonder…" he hesitated. "What do you observe of me?" I told him the above, and some more besides, much to his astonishment. "Well!" he cried. "You didn't exaggerate, Watson."

"I'm afraid not," Watson smiled.

Before Murray left, I shook his hand. "Thank you," I told him. "For your bravery in the war. And for Watson."

Murray replied, "We are both lucky to have a friend like him."

And I agreed.


	69. Girlish Influences

**Because it's been too long since I wrote something totally silly.**

"What are you doing? Watson!"

Wordwielder rolled over. "What does it look like? We're watching _Friends._"

"Watson! Have some pride!"

"I had pride," Watson groaned. "Then I started getting interested, and Ross and Rachel really need to get back together!"

"I know!" Wordwielder exclaimed. "I miss them."

"Me too," Watson agreed.

Holmes harrumphed.

"You can watch too," Wordwielder suggested.

He sat. "I will simply examine this to see what in this show captivated a full-grown man in such a way," he pronounced.

Five minutes later, he was engrossed as much as Watson.


	70. Voiceover

**(Insert giggle.) I'm sorry, I had to write this ridiculous little scene. **

As Holmes stretches his feet onto my lap and kicks my legs, I wonder about how it would like to live blissfully alone and have the couch to myself.

_Don't think I don't think the same thing._

Holmes! What are you doing? This is MY voice-over!

_This is very non-logical. Why do you need a voice-over? You are a writer, are you not? It is my understanding voice-overs are for film and television._

I don't know, Wordwielder wanted to write this out!

**You know why? This is very entertaining.**

When did you get here?

**Been here the whole time. But carry on.**

"That's it!" Watson cried. "Let us just speak!"

**Spoilsport.**


	71. Final For Now

In the chill of Tibet's mountains, Sherlock Holmes came across an English gentleman whom his alias, Sigerson, made acquaintance with. Chaffton was an affable Brit of the great cesspool, departed only three weeks prior from London. He would have the proper amount of homesickness, and with little effort could be induced to converse over his homeland. Holmes befriended the man and was invited to spend a week up in his comfortable lodgings, much more luxurious than what he had to content himself to staying in. Abysmal for experiments!

Through this luck he came up the latest edition of _the Strand_.

His hand reached for it automatically, his great brain distracted with thoughts of his old friend. He stopped himself long enough to ask, "May I? These British pieces of personal interest to me."

"Oh, yes, of course," Chaffton answered, lighting his pipe.

Holmes opened the magazine. There was a chance that while Watson's chief subject was presumed dead, he was still writing pieces for the Strand. It would be almost like a conversation at Baker Street with Watson to read words penned by him.

And there it was…the last of the stories.

(For now.)

'_The Final Problem.'_

"_It is with a heavy heart to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished. In an incoherent and, as I deeply feel, an entirely inadequate fashion, I have endeavored to give some account of my strange experiences in his company from the chance which first brought us together at the period of the "Study in Scarlet,"…._

"_My hand has forced by the recent letters…_

Ah, the letters. Rubbish.

And Watson, still the defender of his friend, even in death.

Each line of ink ran fresh in his memory. Moriarty in his study; Watson's cheerful faithfulness.

His calm hands as he wrote the farewell letter.

"…_If I have now been compelled to make a clear statement of his career, it is due to those injudicious champions who have endeavored to clear his memory by attacks upon him who I shall ever regard as the best and the wisest man whom I have ever known."_

Watson, as usual, you underrate yourself.

You are the best man I've ever known, and wiser in all the ways that count.

**This one's been a looonggg time coming. I came up with idea in April, and only just now got around to writing it out. **


	72. Cross Words and Crosswords

**Hello mates! Yeah...sorry for the delay. I still love you guys. And Holmes. And Watson. And ACD for creating them. **

"Six across is marmoset," Holmes informed me from behind his crime column. "The usual," he sighed, flopping on the paper onto the table in favor of his toast and meeting my glare. "Yes?"

"You always do that."

He cocked his head. "I presume you do not mean eat my breakfast as I do not always do so. I do always read the agonies, but that has never incited your ire before. You are offended by my answering the crossword puzzle? I knew the answer."

"I like to finish the puzzle by myself. It is a challenge for some of us lesser beings."

"The longer we room together the more sardonic you become," Holmes replied. 'You have never told me it bothered you."

"It obviously does."

"Then I will no longer give you answers but allow you to complete the puzzle yourself."

Holmes has flaws, but keeping his word is not one. I enjoyed a glorious challenge every morning for a straight fortnight. Then enigmatic clue of 9 down: Infamous criminal Count in Austria, 1854.

I had no clue. But...

_Holmes would know._

It might be the stubborn Scot in me, and it might be my knowledge of the singular personality of Sherlock Holmes, but I was not going to ask him who would surely know. I would finish the puzzle myself and that was it.

Two new crossword puzzles piled up and still I labored over 9 down. The rest was finished but that infuriating 12 letter word. I knew it ended in R; there was an S and an A. Holmes peeked over my shoulders at it and set his mouth in a determined line before returning to his work.

A week later, no progress. Everywhere I went I listened for hints in conversations around me. I snooped at other people's crosswords, though by now mine was so out of date I saw it nowhere. I was ready to discard my crossword and left it forgotten on my desk. The next morning when I went to collect the various rubbish around my desk for refuse collection, I found the paper with a distinctive B penciled into the first blank square—the B of one Sherlock Holmes. That was it—a single letter. I had to chuckle. Poor Holmes was probably dying to tell me the answer, but was honoring his promise. Technically, he hadn't broken it. He hadn't "told" me anything, just given me a small hint. I left the paper on the desktop and embarked on the backlog of new puzzles, much more easily conquered.

The next day, I found an A in the next square, followed by a U. Five letters of 12.

The M written the next day gave me a hint:

BAUMS R

I cautiously penciled an E next to the R and placed the paper back on the desk. Holmes didn't change it, so I knew it must be correct. He had added a C, and I put an H after it.

BAUMSCH ER

I was again proven right when my H was left unaltered. He wrote an L. I wrote an A. One letter left. But Homes wrote no more. He left me to finish it, and I did. The answer I has struggled so long over was:

BAUMSCHLAGER

"I have finished it," I told Holmes as I dropped the paper into the waste bin. "9 down was a tricky one."

"Is that so?" He inquired. "Tea, Watson?"

The next morning I found on my desk a pamphlet concerning the crimes of Count Baumschlager, and with a smile, I opened it.

**We are at 196 reviews. I'd love if Chapter 72 could tip it into the 200s. 200th reviewer gets to pick the 73rd drabble's topic and events, etc. **

**The traffic graph says I'm getting over 22,000 views. HOLY FREAKING CRAP. WHOA. 22,130 to be precise. 21 Favorites and 17 followers. **

**I love you guys like Watson loves Mary, like Holmes loves cocaine and crimefighting, and Mycroft loves food. **


	73. Substitute

Holmes flopped into his chair like he no longer had the energy to stand at all. "Blasted upstarts!" he grumbled. I closed my journal. Holmes had a language within a language, and when he complained, he usually wanted sympathy. "The students, I presume?"

"The students," he agreed. "They follow none of the logic, they miss the most basic steps of reasoning, and they're the cheekiest blighters…"

"Holmes, they're barely past childhood."

"No excuse. I was more mature at seven."

"Holmes, why did you even wish to teach a class? You have no patience with the majority of the population and you're not a particularly good teacher. Sorry, old boy, honesty."

"Lestrade made it sound so wonderful," Holmes moaned mournfully. "Like I was truly giving them the greatest of gifts."

"That's because his nephew is in the class and he wants to make a Yarder of him yet."

Holmes muttered something dark and insulting. I smirked.

The next day he left me a brief note by the breakfast plate:

_Chasing suspect in Liverpool. Gone all day. Please cover class starting at 9 at Cambridge. _

_-SH_

I swore and checked the clock. It was already half past eight, and I hadn't so much as shaved. I fairly flew to the college and dashed in panting five minutes after nine. All the students examined me with a mix of curiosity and contempt. "Hullo," I breathed. "I'm John Watson. Holmes—Professor Holmes—whatever you call that twit I live with, he's absent for today and he told me I was subbing your class through a note about half an hour ago. And I'm terribly sorry, I'm rambling. Just call me Watson, please."

They stared at me.

A brave soul raised her hand. "Sir—Watson?"

"Yes?"

"You live with Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, he's my flat mate. The horror stories I could tell you," I laughed.

Well, they then got so excited I really had to.

I didn't see what was so repulsive about these young students. We had a pleasant two hours before I bid them farewell.

The next day, Holmes was in especially ferocious mood. "You've spoiled them forever!" he barked at me.

I smirked. "Every class prefers their substitute."

**The winner of my little contest, DoubleEo, has yet to check their PMs, so their request will be Chapter 74. I was waiting for their response, which is why this is so late; I've had it written at least two weeks now.**

**Review, my darlings. It really does make my day.**


	74. Full Rooms, Empty House

It was exactly the same. Exactly.

He sat into his old chair, still perfectly positioned to face Holmes's, at the right angle to the fireplace. The beakers and forceps and magnifying glasses were still strewn all about the experiment table. His books were the only neat thing in the room, since Holmes had abandoned all pretense of tidiness when Watson moved out. Papers were strewn about, seemingly randomly, but Holmes undoubtedly had some sort of bizarre way of organization; there were more still stacked on his desk and penned by the jack knife to the mantle. There were the pictures, and the knickknacks, and the strange collections they'd found and received.

His pipe was still on the sideboard, and there was his trusty Persian slipper. He kicked the bearskin rug. They'd purchased that together. Holmes had rolled his eyes, but stroked it with his foot and pronounced it acceptable. Finally he stood, and climbed to his old, small room, that he still found charming. It was bare, now, and would stay that way until Mycroft choose to sell the place and Mrs. Hudson received new tenants to bake for and worry after, though certainly they wouldn't be as troublesome as the previous. He finally shuffled into Holmes's room, which he had only entered a few times in their friendship. The place was half-neat, half- harried messiness. Watson smiled at his disguises poking out the kit on the floor. Holmes has fooled him more than once in a disguise. Had. The past tense is still difficult to apply. The violin, lovingly cradled in its velvet-lined case, was enough to make him flee the room. Holmes was everywhere, everywhere, and yet he was nowhere, except in memories.

He heard the door open, and the soft tread of Mrs. Hudson. "Hello, doctor," she said.

"It's…the same," he whispered.

"The elder Mister Holmes ordered it that way. I haven't touched a thing."

"Why?"

"I think," she replied. "It's a way to keep his brother close. Did it help you to come here, doctor?"

"I….I don't know."

"Did it help you remember him?"

"Yes."

"Then it did, doctor."

**Okay, I know I'm a complete liar and apparently chronic, but goodness, I've had no inspiration at all. I keep waiting, and then school started, and homework is crushing my soul. Not. Even. Joking. So finally in desperation I pulled out the 2 and 1/2 safety drabbles. Again, Empty House themed. I swear, as depressing as that one is, it's given me more ideas than any of the rest. **

**So, reviewing would be great. I won't let it go so long next time (but my other completed safety drabble is also EH and depressing...what can I say?)**


	75. Living

I have seen both death and birth. I have lived in destitution and comfort. I have struggled with crosswords and God's plans. I have saved lives and taken them. I have been as truly in love as any man, more than once. I have seen five continents' glories and breathed in sea air. I have lost everything; I have gained just as much. I have quarreled with men and befriended others. I have met dukes and lords and ladies and street ruffians. I have stitched wounds, staunched bleeding, set bones, removed bullets, slit open people and tried to bring back as many of them as I could. I have been proven right and most terribly wrong. I have almost been killed by criminals and a friend (though it certainly wasn't his intent). I have fallen asleep over medical books and journal writings. I have enjoyed simple meals at home and fine cuisine abroad. I have worked and lazed. I have dreamed—I do dream still. My life has flourished and grown and changed; I have as well. I have had adventures, sometimes the greatest being trying to find something in 221B's parlor.

In short, I have lived.

**So I'm guessing you guys either a) are tryign to tell me to move past the whole angst from Reichenbach Falls drabbles or b)are not reading that last one, because I got no reviews from it. So I'm going to wait at least 15 chapters before any of that depression, okay? I'm now officially a sophomore, and my life has become homework. So I'm not updating at much as I'd like. **

**But give me props. I told myself I'd update this weekend and I did. WOOHOO! **

**Now I really have to go work on some homework. Then I'm trying to update Oh, Gods.**

**Trying. **


	76. Jousting

I adjusted my uncomfortable iron helmet. Holmes gripped his lance. The horses pawed underneath us.

I grinned at Holmes. "Ready, old boy?" His eyes glinted deviously. "Quite."

"LET THE MATCH COMMENCE!" The announcer cried.

We urged our horses forward. I applaud knights. Having a lance approaching you directly and quickly is a tad discomfiting. Fortunately, ours were of sapling wood, so everyone was guaranteed to survive without crippling injury. Holmes barreled at me, and I barreled at him.

The clash happened at once.

I felt his lance poke my ribs, while my lance hit his upper chest. I reeled but managed to stay on my horse. Holmes got me again, and I fell. From the ground, I jabbed his horse, and Holmes was thrown.

We rose wearily from the muddy ground, groaning.

We caught each other's eyes and pretended at offense before we both laughed at the ridiculousness.

"Middle age hasn't caught us yet, Watson," Holmes said merrily.

"And if it has, we can still yet avoid its clutches," I added.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Rematch?"

I clasped his hand. "And loser buys dinner."

"Watson, my finances are in an alarming state," he protested.

"Then I suggest you win! Besides, wealth is foreign to me as well."

"You're a doctor."

"An underpaid doctor!"

We climbed back on our horses, and pointed our lances.

**Welcome my Sherlockians! This one is suggested by Spocktologist, my 221st Review! I hope you liked it! :)**

**Review with any suggestions.**


	77. Knitting

I had left Watson an explanatory note to my absence. I had not anticipated the local police cooperating as well as they had (the sheriff, who I knew to not be a fan of me, was ill, and his deputy was an able replacement). I found myself reentering London two days ahead of schedule. Poor Watson had been properly abandoned, with Mrs. Hudson out most the day caring for her sister and only coming home to prepare dinner, and myself chasing after counterfeiters. I expected to come home to him sprawled over the settee, perhaps with a novel, or hunched over his typewriter.

Or perhaps, I thought with a smile, he might be indulging in another hobby.

When I entered the room, Watson was serene. He was humming a Scottish tune he liked, one his mother had sung to him and his brother.

He was also up to his chest in yarn. A recognizable shape was emerging: a plaid sweater. The needles clacked like a clock ticking.

John H. Watson was knitting.

I stood in the doorway and waited for the doctor to realize my presence. His face was quite laughable when he looked up and saw me. "Holmes—I—" he sputtered. "You're not even supposed to be home!"

I laughed. "Don't worry, Watson. I was aware you knit."

"What? How?" he demanded, his cheeks going pink.

"You developed callouses on your thumbs and index fingers. And I noticed several stray pieces of yarn on your clothing. You own no piece of clothing that has unraveled enough to leave yarn on you." I examined the beginning of the sweater. "Not bad, Watson. Who taught you?"

"Do you remember four years ago, when I had that bout of pneumonia? I run out of things to do quickly. Mary told me I was driving her mad, so she set out to teach me to knit. It's a bit of a stress relief," he admitted. "Goodness, promise you won't tell Lestrade and Gregson. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Only if you knit me a scarf. It's getting chilly."

"Do you like green?" he asked, picking up his needles.

**This one is inspired by Wordbirdy's story about HOLMES knitting. Actually, just go read ALL those stories. They make me die laughing. Waltzing and Wassailing is the best thing ever.**


	78. Questions

Watson once told me about Joan of Arc, who was told by God and the saints to unite her people to win the Hundred Years War and push the English out of France. "Is it not more likely she was schizophrenic and imagined she heard voices that did not exist?"

Watson started. "It is…possible, I suppose. But if she wasn't being used by God, how did she convince the dauphin to become a true king?"

"Kings are also often prone to insanity," I suggested. "Besides, didn't he betray her and leave her to burn at the stake?"

"Yes…"

"Not like God, or least what I've been told of God."

"It made her a martyr. Her death was what won the war."

"I though God didn't pick sides."

Watson and I had clashed over God before. Watson is a faithful Christian, though he seldom drags himself to Sunday church services.

I, on the other hand, wrestle with God and faith. Watson simply believes; I question. I question scripture, I question clergy, I question believers, I question God. Yet I find myself calling for Him when I curse myself and humanity, I exalt Him when I feel, or at least imagine I feel, His hand in my life.

_"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!" _

I swore perhaps the solemnest oath of my life by the name of the Lord.

_"If you had killed Watson, you would not have gotten out of this room alive." _

Is it my upbringing, the Sunday services we attended as children, deducing our Reverend's indiscretions with the woman who taught Sunday school? Is it Watson's influence? Does it go deeper, to what Watson would term my soul?

Like most scientists, when it comes to religion, I have more questions than answers.


	79. The Yard vs Holmes

**Bonjour, everyone! If you're wondering where the heck I've been, it's called Christmas and Crooks. Which brings me to the prompt below...my 100th review, Ennui Engma, gets to pick the topics of two chapters. Here's the first!**

**1. take one of Watson's "untold" tales as inspiration for a 221B - you could tell it first in Holmes' perspective and next in Watson's pov. or Scotland yard vs Holmes?**

From my first case with him, Sherlock Holmes has expressed a certain disdain for Scotland Yard. His complaints are often uncharitable and always quite true. They certainly extend him no charity either. I serve as a buffer between the good, honest chaps of the Yard and Holmes' cold brilliance. I hear and record both sides' of complaints, and I sympathize with them all. I live with Holmes, after all. I am more patient with Holmes' disappointed and condescending remarks on our faulty reasoning, and his secrecy, his pride and often irritability, and the demands of a partnership with him. I understand Yarders' fumbles and worries, their affront to being shown up and reprimanded by Holmes, and their loathing of their need of him.

Underneath their snipes and gripes, I note banter and laughter, and a thread of loyalty. Now we're all aging terribly, and that wild night is a perfect adventure around the fire. Holmes is fond of tobacco, his Irregulars, hot tea with lemon, my company, and the Inspectors. The Yarders like a good mug of German beer and intriguing cases, the ones they can solve themselves and the ones that call on friend Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes lit his pipe and inhaled reverently. "When you strip away their inability to reason, Scotland Yard has fine men despite their overwhelming bluster."

**It's exactly 221 words! YEAH! I really think this is very loose on the prompt, "Scotland Yard Vs. Holmes", but I like it. I might go more prompt-y later on using this same prompt. **

**Glad I'm back? Review and tell me, please. **


	80. Fear

**2. A case that truly frightens the normally**  
><strong>intrepid Holmes.<strong>

He had forgotten the paralysis of true fear, the way its tendrils snaked through your mind and made it impossible to think and how suddenly you were cold, even though you didn't notice it. How you fumbled to react, to shake it off, but it clung to your skin. How your eyes widened and your heart quickened and you were suffocating.

Watson had never forgotten fear. He had known fear as intimately as a brother in Afghanistan. He had forgotten pain…

Pain was warm and cold simultaneously, and it spread and pulled back and washed over you like the sea's waves.

Watson had been stabbed.

Holmes had been reacquainted with fear.

Watson swallowed. "Of course…it was… the other shoulder…both now…"

Holmes dropped to his knees. Let the criminal go; let the jewels disappear forever. His world had narrowed to the figure on the ground and his terror.

"Holmes," Watson said, calmly, "It is…. a mere scratch..."

"All the same, a trip to Charring-Cross might be in order," Holmes said dryly.

'Whatever you say," Watson got out. "And…tourniquet…"

Holmes ripped his sleeve and fashioned into a tourniquet. He picked up his limp friend and he swore to himself Watson would be fine. His fear did not go away.

**Ehhh...to be continued? Maybe. **


	81. Fear, part 2

"Holmes?" Watson lifted his head. "I lied."

"Is that so?" Holmes replied.

"More than a scratch," Watson admitted. He breathed in, a tad too raggedly. "Holmes, I..."

Holmes recognized his expression and narrowed his eyes. "Watson, if you are about to apologize for _a criminal stabbing you_, please bite your tongue or I will drop you into the gutter." The threat was empty, course; he knew it and so did Watson.

_I am lost without my Boswell…_

Words he had uttered years ago, both carelessly and carefully. Words that constantly plagued him with their truth.

Watson chuckled weakly. "As you wish."

**I continued it...and now I am again...mwahaha! You know why? Dragging out one idea=more chapters. More chapters=awesome. I have made my point.**

**Those of you who also read my HTTYD stuff (I don't really know if there is, but I can hope) I'm so sorry that Oh Gods hasn't been updated yet. I'll try for this week. I mean, to do a drabble I need like twenty minutes; to write an OG chapter is at least an hour and a half. Especially this next one- big stuff happening. Yes. Okay, sorry for that rambling. Review, if you would. It makes me feel accomplished.**


	82. Help, Part 3

Watson eventually slipped into the shadowy realm between reality and our dreams, and his shallow breathing found a rough rhythm. Holmes regretted not nourishing himself earlier; he wouldn't be able to carry Watson's weight much longer.

He almost panicked when he saw the blood seeping from under his hasty, inadequate tourniquet. How could it still be bleeding? Was he imagining the pallor of Watson's face? How much blood had he lost from his "scratch"?

A small movement in the corner of his vision caught his eye, and he turned to the small boy behind him.

The boy's eyes widened. His eyes darted away, like he was thinking of running.

"Toby, isn't it?" Holmes said hoarsely. "You work for a boy could Wiggins? An associate of mine?"

"Mister 'Olmes?" the boy asked, in a soft voice. "I work for Wiggins, I do."

"Yes!" Holmes leaned against the lamppost. "Toby, will you do me a favor?"

Toby nodded. "'Course, Mister 'Olmes."

"Run to Scotland Yard and send them here without delay. Tell them the doctor's wounded. Do you have all that?"

The boy nodded and began to run.

Holmes sank to his knees, still cradling Watson. Help was on the way. He closed his eyes.

**To be continued...again...mwahaha this is fun!**


	83. Knife-Wielding Maniac

"My God, Holmes, you said 'petty thief'!" a loud, comforting voice cried. "We would have been here if you'd said 'knife-wielding maniac!'" Holmes opened his eyes as Lestrade and MacPherson helped him up—where was Watson?

"We've got the doctor," Gregson soothed. "He's already speeding to Charring Cross."

"He _was_ a petty thief," Holmes murmured. "He was a petty thief with a sharp knife and a quick hand. Maniac could be a stretch." He paused. "Will Watson be alright?"

Gregson took his arm. "Let's go see."

**To be continued.**

**I have exams this week, and that means half-days. And because of that glorious thing called procrastination, you guys are getting the daily update treatment. Another tomorrow for sure, and I believe that will wrap up this arc. **


	84. Tea and Shortbread

Watson smiled at Holmes, his eyes tired but his face unburdened. "Just blood loss, old boy. Superficial wound. It won't ache every wet day like the other shoulder."

Holmes smiled. "That's good."

Watson pushed himself off the table. "Let's go home. I think I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to make shortbread."

Holmes laughed. "You really are fine if that's your only request."

"It's not my only request," Watson said. "I certainly want tea, too."

Holmes nodded. "Let's go home."

**I ran spell check on this, and these blue lines pop up under request. I click on it and the reason is 'complex expression'. It suggests I replace it with ask. **

**WHAT.**

**Anyway, so concludes this arc...hope you enjoyed it!**


	85. Butterflies

**And my next prompt, from bookgirlfan:**

**Holmes has to catch a murderer who displays his victims like butterflies, as in he pins them to the wall.**

**Warning: creepy. **

Holmes knew many collectors; in his line of work, he consulted, met, and analyzed many of them. Collectors of women, rare Chinese pottery, entomologists who enthusiastically showed their collections.

This was certainly a collector's work. However, he had never met such a collector.

He gazed up at the body pinned to the wall, its limbs spread grotesquely, strongly reminded of the dead butterflies encased behind glass in his biology teacher's office.

"You can take the body down," he told the coroner. "I have learned all I can here."

Sherlock Holmes was a collector of criminals; he had just found a truly new specimen to hunt.

**Possibly to be continued; I kind of feel like this is so different for me I will ruin a great idea. **


	86. Portrayals

"Goodness, this Benedict Cumberbatch looks nothing like me," Holmes said critically.

"I wouldn't say _nothing_ like you," Watson said. "There is a slight resemblance."

"Watson, he looks like an otter."

"But an attractive otter," Wordwielder contributed. "Like, an otter that would be worshipped by other fangirl otters. Speaking of attractive men, what's the verdict on Jude Law as Watson?"

"I can see it," Holmes agreed.

Watson shrugged. "In my earlier years, yes. Heaven knows that's more accurate than Nigel Bruce."

"Effing Hollywood," Wordwielder said emphatically. "Don't get me started on early film portrayals. Still, they did pretty good on Basil Rathbone." She quickly pulled up a Google image. "Isn't it uncanny?"

"It is!" Watson exclaimed.

"But Jeremy Brett's got the 'aquiline' nose," Holmes quoted, with a glance at Watson. Watson rolled his eyes. "Are you still on about the nose?"

"I'd say you're Basil with Jeremy's nose, a dash of Robert Downey Jr.—speaking of attractive, my God—and a little Benedict curl to your hair," Wordwielder decided. 'For you, dear Watson, I'd say Jude Law, with a little Martin Freeman. All the earlier representations seem simply _too_ mustached, if you get my meaning."

Watson grinned. "And you mock fangirls."

"I wish I got BBC," Wordwielder muttered, looking slightly depressed.

**Erm. So, yeah, it's been a while. And this is not well planned out or clever or anything, but hopefully you smiled a bit. Seriously, any idea would be appreciated; I'm running a bit low. I have an idea to keep this story going to 221 chapters, but if that's happening, I need 135 more ideas. I will try to post more than once every two months though...I do apologize, my dear readers. If any of you are still being patient with me, that is...**


	87. Library

"A great library contains the diary of the human race."-George Dawson

(1901)

When I moved into our little flat at 221B Baker Street, I had scant possessions. Nevertheless, I had with me a few treasured volumes - ranging from beautifully bound medical treatises to the little dime paperbacks I purchased when desperate for reading material. I stacked them on my shelf before I bothered to put sheets on my bed.

Like me, Holmes brought his own library. He shelved his crime manuals and journals in alphabetical order, reminding me of an overprotective librarian.

Over the years, my small collection expanded with my cheque book. I have pondered over the philosophes, mouthed along to Tennyson, flipped through Dickens, and laughed over the blatant Americanism of Tom Sawyer. Holmes' collection is ever growing, for as much as there is crime he will study it. Now we are running out of room on our shelves and wall space to hang new shelves.

I muse that we are preserving a shred of our own humanity in the written word. We are writing own entry in the diary of the human race.

**Thanks to Tegan Ganmore for this quotation thing. Reviews?**


	88. The Creator

"You're telling our supposed creator believed in spiritualism?"

"Yes," Wordwielder said patiently. "Quite devoted, actually. Wrote ten books on the subject, helped run a spiritualism museum leader in the societies, the works."

Holmes shook his head. "I thought you said he was intelligent."

"He was, to write sixty of your stories," Wordwielder muttered. "I can't write a plausible case-fic to save my life. Anyway," she said, speaking louder, "He was a doctor and had the knighthood. Brilliant guy."

"But _ghosts_?"

"He said he saw his dead son."

"Grieving hallucination."

"Possibly...he was quite a bit like Watson, actually," Wordwielder noted. " Army doctor, two wives, one died, very devoted to them both. His last words to his wife were 'You are wonderful.' Isn't that nice?"

Holmes shook his head. "Completely irrational."

She wasn't sure whether he meant Conan-Doyle's affection or the idea of spirits.

**I was curious as to ACD's last words, and I stumble don a little biography. I thoguht it was interesting, so why not make a little chapter? Also, it amused me ACD was so mystic and Holmes is so NOT.**


	89. Punch Me in the Face

Lestrade's eyes went to Holmes' brilliantly purple-black eye, extending from his browbone to well below his eye, brushing over his cheekbone.  
>"Can't dodge them all, Lestrade," Holmes said indulgently.<p>

Lestrade's eyes caught on Watson's bruised knuckles.

"You...?" he asked, his eyes darting up to Watson's face and then back to Holmes' bruises.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "I haven't an idea what you mean, Lestrade."

Lestrade grinned. "I knew you would crack eventually. I knew you'd punch him." He chuckled. "And now off to collect my winnings!" He jaunted off cheerily.

Holmes looked at Watson disapprovingly. "Watson, perpetuating deception?" he mocked.

Watson waved his hand. "Oh, let him have his winnings. Just as long as the other end of the bet doesn't find out."

"Well, you've started the rumour mill now," Holmes said dryly. "Next week all of the Yard will have us in a blood feud."

**Oh, dear. How long has it been now? Oh, a month? Ooops. Play practice, people. But now after stupid SOL testing I expect school to wind down and I'm not doing much after that point. This one was inspired by the Sherlock quote:**

**Sherlock: Punch me in the face.**

**John: Excuse me?**

**Sherlock: Punch me in the face. Didn't you hear me?**

**John: I always hear "punch me in the face" when you're speaking. **

**AHAHAHA. **


	90. Robin Hood

**I'm so sorry. I really am. I've basically been too lazy to actually work on this, and that's all on me. **

**But here's some consolation in the form of a continuation of the last chapter. **

Two inspectors smirked at Sherlock Holmes' eye, which was fading towards blue rather than deep purple. Watson's knuckles, visible around the newspaper that was currently hiding his face, were now yellowing, almost translucent.

"Oho, mate, lose a fight?" McDonald snickered.

Holmes did not smile in camaraderie. "Losing is subjective."

"Means yes," Courttish whispered. "Well, we'll be seeing you both. These murders, _I _dunno."

They jaunted away, giggling like school girls. Holmes set his teeth. "Because you don't look, you imbecile."

Watson rolled his eyes. Holmes couldn't see the act, but he knew.

"I am sick," Holmes snapped. "Of these morons mocking me through a thin veil of courtesy about an incident they have misconstrued to fit the version of reality they blunder through!"

Watson folded his paper in fourths. "Are you finished?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Of course it doesn't bother you. You are being perceived as a folk hero."

"A folk hero? Don't be overdramatic."

"If only they used their brains…"

"They are using their brains. Just incorrectly."

"They connect my bruising to yours, not stopping to consider any alternatives. Amateur errors!"

"Or they know how infuriating you are and ran with that theory," Watson suggested.

Holmes glowered. Watson squeezed his shoulder. "Would you like me to straighten this out?"

Holmes half-nodded, and Watson grinned.

* * *

><p>"...so, you see, I didn't punch him at all."<p>

"Lemme get this straight," said Gregson, glaring at Lestrade. "You both got your bruises fighting a criminal, not each other?"

"Yes."

"And this idiot here jumped to conclusions and took five pounds from me?"

"Yes."

Gregson turned to Lestrade. "Pay up. Now."

"Actually," Watson smiled. "I believe you owe me a tad of money, Gregson. I'll just take this. The difference between your debt and this will go towards Holmes for compensation. He's had to endure a week as a laughingstock, you know."

Watson jaunted out of Scotland Yard to where Holmes was smoking his pipe. "All taken care of." He dropped the money into Holmes' hand. "Now I think we _can _call me a folk hero. I've just stolen from the rich—well, richer than us—and given to the poor. Just call me Robin Hood."

Holmes snorted. "How can I ever repay you?" he mock-simpered.  
>"With half the profits. I'm poor too."<p>

"But what about the children?" Holmes pled.

Watson knocked his shoulder. "If they existed I'd be a little more sympathetic to your plight. Now let's go eat, good peasant."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm at least Friar Tuck."


	91. The Rain

**"There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence."-_A Study in Scarlet_**

The nights are long, these days. Long and cold, and he wonders why he's chosen to live in the dreary chill of London. His dreams reflect that. Gray and black, sometimes, terrifyingly dark.

More often they are red like the blood spilled, and yellow like the sand, terrifyingly colorful.

Loneliness is his companion. That, and his Sport. The pup is a small ball of warmth and comfort in a narrow and desolate world.

His limbs always feel weak, and he knows he's too thin. He should be eating better than he is, and he should be walking in the mornings.

He feels disloyal for being relieved to have left Afghanistan.

The rain is constant, as it's _always _been, and after the bright sunshine of the desert he thinks it's going to drive him mad.

He doesn't want to face God.

He thinks about his parents and Hamish and his men and he can't help but think-

He should be dead. Better men than him have died. Men with more to lose. Men with more left behind to grieve for them.

He tries to heal. Every day he tries. He tries so much.

* * *

><p>The balm of music flows over him. Afghanistan is gone. He is alive. He considers this fact and feels a genuine and fierce rush of gratitude. The violin is rich and sweet and wraps its music around his feet like the warmth of the roaring fire.<p>

"Play it again, Holmes," he requests.

The bow whispers over the strings. He closes his eyes and smiles. A sense of peace is draping over his shoulders like a warm robe. The rain outside is the perfect compliment to the notes flowing in the air. He bends his head. Prayer feels natural and soothing, like the touch of a loved one. Tomorrow he'll eat a hearty breakfast and go for a walk. He has finally left Afghanistan behind, and there's so much ahead.

**"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent."-Victor Hugo**

**Okay, a word of explanation.**

**1) I'm sorry. Basically, I was just too lazy to work on this pretty much all summer. Then school started. I took AP classes. You know how last year I complained my life was homework? I KNEW NOTHING THEN. NOW MY LIFE IS HOMEWORK. **

**But tonight I wanted to actually update all my running stories. My dear Tales has been horribly neglected.**

**2) Watson downplays his horrible injuries and psychological damage after Afghanistan. He begins his narrative of the campaign and ends it in a brief page or so. But Watson is injured and alone in a country where he knows no one. He probably suffered from depression if not PTSD. Of course, Watson is a British military man and to admit such a thing is not in his nature- which is why he skims over his misery in the above quotation. Thusly, this. Do you guys like how I explain everything I write and my motivation behind writing it?**

**Reviews? Please? We're so close to four hundred I can almost taste it.**


	92. What's in a Name?

"I still can't believe you named him Sherlock."

"Uncle Sherlock died the day before, dear; it would seem irrelevant to name the baby anything else."

"It means _fair-haired._ Would you call that fair-haired?" Charles Holmes pointed to his son's decidedly dark brown hair.

"No, but it's a nice, distinguished name. It'll be a wonderful professional name when he's grown-up," his wife Adelaide reached for the baby's hand.

"It's a bit of mouthful for such a little thing," Charles said doubtfully. He, of course, could not realize at this point that his son would top six feet before he turned sixteen.

"Mycroft grew into his quite nicely." Seven-year-old Mycroft, hearing his name, smiled solemnly at his mother before returning to his novel. Adelaide kissed him absently, which Mycroft tolerated only out of fondness for her. "Besides, you got to name our firstborn. It was my turn."

"The next one we're naming John," Charles said firmly. "One of them has to have a boring common name."

"Now where's the fun in that?" Adelaide demanded. "I'm thinking…Percival."

"As in _Sir _Percival?"

"The most valiant and virtuous of all Arthur's knights," Adelaide replied promptly.

"And for a girl?"

"Loretta, I think. Isn't that a lovely name?"

"Yes, darling. I was afraid you were going to suggest Guinevere or Isolde."

"Perhaps Elaine," his wife added thoughtfully. "I did always prefer her to Guinevere."

Charles laughed. "You'll grow into the name too, I suppose," he promised his son. "Sherlock Holmes," He shook his head. "What a name."

"Certainly," Adelaide agreed.

**Hey guys. You know, I realized I've barely touched on Holmes' personal life. Meanwhile I've delved beyond deep into Watson's. Thus, this. I really was in a mood to update. Review? Please? Forgive me for slacking? **


	93. Stars

Sherlock Holmes- here, in his mind, he could use his own name- gazed up at the stars over the Himalayas. He was not one to wax poetry, but he had to concede the beauty of the sight- the starlight shining more clearly than he had seen it since his childhood, the snow on the mountain caps luminous in the purplish night.

He missed London. He missed good English tobacco and Mrs. Hudson's creature comforts. He missed not having to look over his shoulder. He missed the chase. He missed Lestrade and Gregson and all the rest, God bless their blundering souls. He even missed his brother, despite the sterile notes he occasionally received from him. (The notes were welcome distractions, news of _home_).

Most of all, he missed his Boswell.

Guilt was an irrational emotion-usually. He had done all he had done for very good reason, and he should not feel ashamed if it weren't for the thoughts that plagued him- Watson's grief, Watson's loss, Watson's own guilt. At times he found himself thinking of things to say to Watson, turning to his right to see no one beside him.

"Soon, old friend," he promised to the night. "Soon."

**Um, hey. I'd like to begin my three part apology by saying I think you're all wonderful humans. **

**I'm so sorry, really. Junior year was insanely stressful, but now I'm on summer break and trying to get back on track.**


	94. Violin

**Hello, my dears. See, I am trying. **

Charles Holmes yawned. "Addie, remind me why I bought that dratted violin." He winced as his son hit a particularly painful note upstairs.

"Oh, Charles, he was so happy."

"I know, dear, and that's wonderful, but I'm _exhausted._"

"Perhaps we should set a curfew for playing," Adelaide admitted. "Heavens, I didn't realize he was such a night owl."

"It's a good thing the neighbors are so far off," Charles said darkly.

"You must admit, he's a rather remarkable player for having only had the instrument twelve hours. "

"Oh, certainly, certainly. But he's not a prodigy yet."

"Give him time, my love, and I'm sure he'll astound us with his skill."

Serendipitously, Sherlock hit a pure note (quite accidently), and replicated it; in just a few minutes, he had a fair-sounding chord.


	95. Undercover

**I hope this isn't too vague. Basically, Holmes and Watson are undercover at a mental hospital.**

"Excuse me, Doctor," the orderly said, "It's time to give Mr. Holmes his medicine."

"Very well," Dr. Smuthers said, stepping out of the room. "We'll continue our session tomorrow then, Sherlock. Think about what we've discussed."

Holmes barked out a mad laugh, and the orderly suppressed a shudder.

"Good luck, Robert," the doctor muttered on his way out. "He tried to bite me earlier."

"Bloody fantastic," he grumbled. The doctor chuckled and stepped out.

The orderly's curt expression slid off his face. "Are you alright today, Mr. Holmes?"

"Perfectly comfortable," Holmes said.

"Was your session productive?" Watson slid out two sugar pills and handed them to Holmes, along with a glass of water. Holmes swallowed them, looking like the model of a docile patient.

Holmes smiled. "Very." He lowered his voice. "Yes, Watson, I am certain Smuthers is our man. Your reports of the nurses' gossip has been most helpful."

"The sooner we can end this the better," Watson replied. "It's only a matter of time before the doctor realizes you're not taking the psychiatric medication, or one of us slips up and breaks character."

"Nonsense." Holmes smiled crookedly. "We're each playing a role not so different from ourselves. You've often told me I'm mad."

"Well, I'm not an orderly. I rank higher on the medical food chain. Please just solve the case, Sherlock."

The use of his first name was rare. Significant.

"I will, Watson. Do not fear."


	96. Little Things

**It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important.**

**- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle**

Sherlock Holmes and I shared more than a few adventures and near-death experiences, but far more frequently we shared quiet, domestic mornings at 221B. I fear I have painted to the reader a far more dashing idea that Holmes and I rarely stopped running about London long enough to have a quick tea at home. Ah, but in the grand scale of things, we were mundane and human.

Life is made of little things, dear reader.

A bright morning in early spring. I remember noting the way the sunlight was streaming through the window as I poured myself a cup of tea. Holmes' nose was buried into the newspaper, so I could only see the top of his head. I smiled and began to stir in a sugar cube.

"You may have the puzzle," Holmes said, before I could even ask.

"Anything interesting?"

"To you, I imagine. Nothing noteworthy in my regard."

"Bread?"

"Since you've moved in I must've put on a stone of weight."

I began to butter him a roll.

A cold night in late winter. The fire crackled. I was writing. Holmes was reading a manuscript, his head cocked. I paused in the middle of a sentence, and Holmes looked up.

"Writer's block?"

"Something like that."

Holmes put down his book and picked up his violin. He began to play, and I began to type again, and a beautiful if peculiar rhythm emerged.

A magnificent storm outside and a game of chess to keep us busy. I was losing terribly, so Holmes poured me another drink and chuckled.

"I don't know why I still play with you," I grumbled.

His eyes were bright and at peace. "Because we must have some entertainment. When this clears up I'll take you to see the bees."

Yes, life is all in the little things.


	97. Tulips

In an city more often than not damp and chill, London springs are remarkable for their blue skies and sunshiny days. Even those with rickety bones and greying whiskers (like myself) enjoy basking outdoors. On such a day I attempted to persuade my flatmate to go for a refreshing stroll in the park. Holmes blinked at me, his hair uncharacteristically mussed, and furrowed his brow.

"What hour is it, Watson?"

"About ten. High time for you to get up. I've left the breakfast things out for you, but I'm afraid by now they will be abominably cold."

"I am not interested in gamboling about outdoors like a kitten," he grumbled. "You may go, id it so suits you. When you get back I will have the chessboard ready."

I chuckled. "I'll see you after I do my fair share of gamboling."

Spring always does makes one feel young. Even my knee left me be. I shared cheery hellos with strangers and even, in a burst of nostalgic good cheer, stooped and gathered some tulips for Mrs. Hudson.

I hid the bunch behind my back on the way up, but called a good morning to my landlady, who replied in kind. I set about upstairs searching for a suitable vase- meaning one Holmes and I had not cracked or stained beyond repair. Sadly, that left me very little choices. I managed to find one mostly suitable, hoping Mrs. Hudson wouldn't notice the scratch on its side. I arranged the flowers to my liking, and went to carry them back down when Holmes' voice stopped me.

"Running out so early on the chess game, old boy?"

I snorted, turning to where Holmes was sprawled over the couch. He caught sight of the flowers and frowned. "Have I offended you in some way?"

I took the liberty of reflecting. "Not recently."

"Ah. Well, if one believes in such drivel, tulips are supposedly a declaration of war upon a rival. I do not, but I thought perhaps you had been studying up on the language of flowers for your admirers."

"No, they're not for you, or any admirer. They're for Mrs. Hudson."

"Ah, are you declaring war on the burned bread of last week? She did apologize."

"No war is being declared," I said as I began the descent downstairs.

"You should've found her calla lilies!" Holmes called. "They represent feminine beauty!"

I stuck my head back in. "Are _you_ hiding an admirer from me somewhere?"

"When was the last time you went in the box room?" he asked dryly.


	98. Dying

Sherlock Holmes looked up at Watson and smiled serenely. "Always good to see you, John."

Watson smiled wanly. "And you."

Holmes thought, irrelevantly, of Watson's appearance the first day they met, and how much he had changed. It had been fifty-six years past.

"I suspect I am dying, Watson. All the facts seem quite conclusive."

Watson gazed upon him, and merely lay a hand upon his shoulder.

"I'll stay with you," Watson said quietly.

"You always have, my friend."

**Hm, I just found this one, and I thought I had already published it, but apparently not. **

**I'm shooting for updating every day this week until I have to go back to school. My soul is already dying in anticipation.**


	99. Two Watsons

Dr. John Watson and Dr. John Watson stared at each other.

"So, Afghanistan?" the mustached Watson asked.

"Yeah. You too, then?" The clean-shaven Watson asked.

"The 1878 Anglo-Afghan War. I was shot in my leg, and my shoulder. Devil still aches on cold, wet days."

"Me too, actually. I'm off the cane now, and that's a bloody relief, let me tell you."

"And you trained at Bart's too? Army doctor?"

"I did."

"Came back to London after your wound? Living in a hotel? No family or friends to stay with?"

"Right on all points."

"Fascinating," Watson said. "This alternate universe thing. We're similar, and yet..."

"We're rather different," John said.

"I'd say so," Watson agreed. "When were you born?"

John laughed. "Do I have to answer that?"

Watson laughed too. The sounds were uncannily similar. "Suffice to say over a hundred years after you?" John offered.

"Suffice it does. You've just started rooming with Holmes, then? I mean- Sherlock. You call him Sherlock. I confess that seems exceedingly strange to me. "

"I have. Is that obvious, or are you better at this deduction thing?"

"You jumped when Holmes shot through the door."

"You mean you get used to that?"

"Unfortunately, you do. Except when he decides to do it at 2 A.M."

"_He does that?" _

"Oh, he hasn't graduated to disturbing your sleep yet. Enjoy that while you can."

"No, he does," John sighed. "It's just usually with a violin solo."

"Oh, so yours plays too!" Watson said, delighted. "Give him time. Holmes can annoy me with that at the wrong times, but he also has an innate sense of when I require a little soothing and he'll play my favorites."

"There's hope, then?" John joked.

Watson chuckled. "He's not always so- ah."

"Tell me," John said. "Does yours spend days at a time on the couch in a mood?"

"Yes."

"Ruin every date you ever have?"

"Yes."

"Weird about his brother?"

"Incredibly."

"Derive pleasure from insulting Scotland Yard?"

"Certainly."

"Do you have to constantly apologize after him?"

"That never goes away, I'm afraid."

"Constantly complaining of boredom?"

"Yes."

"Makes you do all the domestic things Mrs. Hudson refuses to?"

"Oh, you have a Mrs. Hudson? Is she like ours? But yes. I buy his Christmas presents for him."

"You're his only real friend?"

"Debatable. He's rather fond Mrs. Hudson and his Irregulars, and the Yard is growing friendlier over the years."

"But simply put?"

"Most likely."

"Incredibly callous?"

"Oh, yes."

"Really asexual? 'Married to his work?'"

"Yes."

"Does he always act like the whole case is obvious, even when it's_ not,_ and expect you to follow his leaps?"

"Oh, yes. But eventually you'll sort of be able to."

"You mean- it rubs off on you?"

"A bit. You'll never be quite on the mark, but you might get a few things right."

"So there _is_ hope."

"Believe me, John, Sherlock Holmes will end up being one of the best things that ever happened to you. I promise you that." Watson clapped his shoulder kindly.

"I'd like to see your stories," John said.

"Certainly! Could you explain that blog thing to me?" Watson asked.

"Ah, I can try...let me get out my computer..."

**So I've had my first Sherlock experience, and actually- I like it. I like it a lot more than I thought I would. I'm toying with the idea of writing a companion piece with both Sherlock Holmeses talking. **

**Also, as per usual, I'm sorry I'm a horrible updater. **

**Also, I'm in the midst of Hades' December Challenge. Check out Please Come (Holmes) for Christmas, if you like holiday themed drabbles and general zaniness, you might have fun with it. **

**I also just realized I started this thing exactly three years ago today. I actually didn't realize that when I first published this chapter. Thank all of you so much for reading and reviewing and staying with me all this time. The game is still afoot. **


	100. Two Holmes'

"This is preposterous," Sherlock Holmes huffed. "You look _nothing _like me!"

"Or you look nothing like _me_," Sherlock Holmes fired back. "Wait, are those cigarettes in that beaker?"

"I prefer my pipe, but I keep a few around," Holmes said. "I see you are a smoker, but you tend to rely on nicotine patches." Both Holmes dipped their heads and looked around for their Watsons, who were currently chatting animatedly from the kitchen, bent over what John called his laptop. Holmes quietly slipped a cigarette into Sherlock's hand and lit it, as well as his pipe. Both men sighed in satisfaction.

"Does _yours _constantly whine about your 'unhealthy habits?'" Sherlock grumbled. Holmes snorted. "_Constantly. _It's always, 'Holmes, I cannot breathe through that fog' and 'Holmes, think of your brain cells!'"

"I've heard that exact phrase," Sherlock replied. Both men rolled their eyes.

"My good Watson is a horrible nag. I presume yours is the same?"

"Ugh, all he ever wants for me to eat or sleep or go out and get some air! It's so _annoying._ I've told him a thousand times, I think better-"

"With physical deprivation!" Holmes nodded his agreement. "Nothing is so stimulating, is it not?"

"It's the best way to do my work," Sherlock agreed.

Holmes studied his face momentarily. "Wordwielder is right. You do look like an otter."

"Huh," Sherlock filed that away for further consideration. He opened his mouth to enquire about what a Wordwielder was when Holmes looked at him strangely.

"May I tell you something- Sherlock?"

Shelrock raised his eyeborws and nodded.

"Sentiment will get you, eventually," Holmes said softly. "Your Watson will become invaluable to you in ways you cannot rationally explain. You will be prepared to die and kill for him. He will become the most important person in your life. He'll force you to start feeling, and you'll soften as much as you don't want to. It will be worth it, in the end, and you'll never quite be able to thank him properly."

Sherlock blinked. "He'll- what?"

Holmes smiled wryly. "I know. It seems impossible, does it not? It's not. Don't be stubborn, like you are, like I am. It just will happen."

Sherlock stared at him. "Did yours- get engaged?"

Holmes nodded. "You'll miss him," he answered the implied question. Sherlock frowned.

"Might I offer just a bit of advice?"

"Yeah?"

"Be kind to him, Sherlock." Holmes said softly. "You must remember to be kind to him."

Watson and John entered the room, laughing at something; their eyes landed on their detectives, and they laughed twice as hard.

Holmes glared at Watson. "What, Watson?"

"Nothing," Watson said innocently.

"Watson, my dear Watson, do not lie to me."

"Holmes, I'm thinking of shaving," Watson said, just as John said, "I'm thinking of growing a mustache, Sherlock."

Sherlock and Holmes looked at each, horrified, and starting sputtering with distress.

"You were right, that was funny," Watson whispered to John, who smirked before he started yelling, "Where did you get that cigarette?" and Watson yelled, "_Holmes!" _

Neither Holmes looked particularly chagrinned.

**One hundred chapters. One hundred chapters. I can't believe it. This is a milestone. I started this story when I was in the ninth grade; I like to think I've gotten better as I go. **

**I'm going to get sentimental for a moment, darlings. I've had a really rough few months. It's been harder for me to smile lately. I had forgotten just how much I love to write these two and their adventures, and how happy that makes me, and how happy it makes me when you guys write me even tiny bits of praise about these little stories. When I was writing in last month's December Challenge, I rediscovered how very much I love it, and I think I'll be back more frequently in coming months. **

**You guys make my day with reviews. I hope you guys will stick with me until one day, when this is done, and that you guys keep enjoying it as much as I have and am. Okay, I'm done, I'm done. **


	101. Cats and Dogs

"Have you met our new flatmate?" I asked Holmes as I shed my overcoat. He looked up sharply. "New-?" then groaned. "Mrs. Hudson has finally fulfilled her wish for a cat. A calico kitten, then?"

"Did I have hair on my coat?" I asked, examining the front of my cost.

"Excellent, Watson. Yes, several pieces on your sleeves, where the color contrast between the hair and your coat made it easily noticeable." He sighed. "I despise kittens."

"I should think you'd have an affinity for them."

"Why ever would you think that? I can think of no data to substantiate such a claim."

"Not such precise data as you're so fond of. I merely have noticed that-" I tried, unsuccessfully, not to burst into laughter, "You're rather like a cat."

"I'm like a _cat_?" he asked me incredulously. "Explain, please, Watson."

"Well, you shun affection and welcome it in intervals. By that I mean you wait until I don't want to fuss after you to demand my attention, and get rather cross when I ignore you. Then," I continued. "There's how you move. Gracefully, yes, but leanly. The way you slouch over your chair. How you curl up in a ball when you're sleeping. Cats do these things."

"Oh?" he asked, mouth in a firm line.

"And, if you'll pardon a writer's poor metaphor- you chase after your prey, and cats do the same. You eat in small, irregular amounts- every cat I've ever had has done that as well. You're often nocturnal, and fond of yowling in the middle of the night." I nodded to his violin with a grin. "You're not cuddly but you can be friendly, as cats tend to be. Perhaps I'll get you some yarn for your birthday?"

He huffed at me. "There is a cat downstairs, not up here, Watson. You could've at least given me panther or tiger."

"You're a tad friendlier than a tiger, Holmes, I've _met_ them."

"I could make a case for your similarities to a dog," Holmes replied, eyeing me. "You accept the affections of those around you easily, and return it easily. You tend to bark when you're upset, and whine and pace when you're worried." He smiled at me wryly. "Your loyalty of course, is unquestionable," he added, "I believe the popular phrase is 'loyal as a dog?'"

"It is," I affirmed. "There's just one flaw to both of our theories, Holmes."

"Which is?"

"Cats and dogs generally hate each other."

"True, true." Holmes shrugged. "Pray do not get me anything for my birthday, Watson, particularly yarn."


	102. Happy Birthday

The vicar and I approached the cottage quietly as we could. I tried very hard not to snicker, and then not to wince as I set my bag directly on top of my foot, though it was doubtful the small noise would be detected over the rich notes of the violin music in the air. But my years have taught me to never underestimate trifles when one is dealing with genius. I nodded to the vicar, who knocked firmly.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"What the deuce?" I heard Holmes ejaculate inside. I could just see his silhouette through the window pane, illuminated by the light of the fire, violin paused below his chin. He was evidently in a foul humor. I smiled wider. He stood, and I heard him approach the door. "My good man, it is most out of character for you to be out on such a night as this. Has there been a-" Here, he flung the door open, and the Vicar bowed his head and stepped aside as I stepped forward.

I had never had such a pleasure as observing my friend's face in that moment. His eyebrows had been furrowed, and now they slackened, and he fell abruptly silent. His eyes widened, and for a brief second he stared at me, amazed.

"Hullo, Holmes," I said.

I have seen Holmes smile many times in the near forty years I have known him. I have seen him smile when he is pleased, amused, perplexed, mocking, and content. But never had I seen him look so delighted.

"_Watson," _he exclaimed. "You're supposed to be fifty miles away, tending to an outbreak of Spanish influenza!"

I quirked my eyebrow. "Have I at last managed to surprise you, old boy?"

"I confess you have," he laughed. "I had observed in your letter you wrote very slowly, much more careful of your words, than you usually do, but I believed you were hesitating in how to best tell me you couldn't visit. I have never known you to deceive me so before. You sly old man!"

"I hope you aren't too cross with me," I replied. "I wanted-"

He waved his hand dismissively. "I am very glad to see you. Come in, come in! Vicar, are you staying?"

"Oh, no," the man chuckled. "Dr. Watson didn't want you to recognize his voice, and requested my help. I must get back to the parish. Good evening, gentlemen!"

We bade him farewell, and Holmes took my hat and coat. He reached for my luggage, and sat back as he observed its size, his eyes bright. "You are staying for-"

"An entire week," I beamed.

"My good Watson," he said softly, and very quickly, embraced me, and just as quickly released me.

"It shall be just like the olden days," I said firmly.

"Well then," Holmes said quietly. "Let me light your pipe, Watson, and I shall play something for you, if you like."

"I always do, Holmes," I replied. "I'll make us some tea, and we can catch up for a while."

"Will you-" he cleared his throat. "Would you read me one of our tales?"

I smiled at the term. He had always referred to them as "your stories" if he was being charitable, and "that romantic drivel" if he wasn't. Never had I heard him take partial ownership of them.

"Of course, my dear Holmes."

"I'll put your bag in your room. Excuse me," he murmured. I began brewing a pot of tea, and pulled from my pocket the small honey cakes my wife had sent with me. I handed him the tray as he sat back down, and he smiled at me a little sadly.

"Will you ever cease trying to take care of me, Watson?"

"I'm afraid I don't know how to do much else. It's become instinct."

"I admit, I was- displeased- you couldn't come. I have seldom been happier to be wrong. Solitude doesn't bother me, but-"

"Happy birthday, Holmes," I interrupted.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, my dear Watson."

**Today, Sherlock Holmes turns 161. Happy birthday, old fellow. I recommend y'all go on tumblr and look up girlmeetssherlock, and read her open letter to Holmes. I think it expresses it all perfectly. **


	103. Pink

**Hey guys, those who read Please Come (Holmes) For Christmas might remember a little contest I've done in the last two years where I shamelessly force people to review to get to pick a prompt for me to write for Tales. My 180th (!) reviewer was bookgirlfan, who gave me this to work with. I'm so sorry I'm only just now getting around to writing it, friend. Senior year kind of sucks, guys. But- be excited, because rereading the canon is giving me so many ideas to write. Good ones, I think. **

**_Okay, here's something really random. I want Watson with pink hair. Don't know why, or if it's part of a case, dyed or just an unfortunate accident, but could you try it?-_****Bookgirlfan**

Sherlock Holmes was reasonably certain Watson's minor head injury would cloud this incident in his mind. He certainly hoped so, at least. He had not meant for poor Watson to mistake the small bottle from the chemist for his shampoo, which still lay unopened on the sideboard. He had intended to warn him, but at that moment Billy had burst in with an urgent telegram, and he had forgotten his poor Watson.

Holmes had been on the couch, smoking, contemplating how one could possibly slip deadly poison into an entire teapot and only poison one drinker, and had opened his mouth to ask Watson to fetch his slipper when the incident occurred. Watson sighed, likely rolled his eyes, but rose to grab it from the mantle. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror over the sideboard and had blinked for a good moment before letting out a cry of alarm and backing into the mantle with enough force to make him swear and tumble over, eyes fluttering in and out of consciousness.

Holmes had not looked from the ceiling in several hours. When his eyes landed on his prostrate Boswell, he felt a rush of guilt.

Watson's hair had turned a shockingly bright pink.

* * *

><p>"Holmes?" Watson rasped. He had yet to open his eyes, which were screwed up like his head was paining him.<p>

"I'm here, old fellow."

"What-?"

"You had a small shock."

"I had the _strangest _dream," Watson frowned. "My hair was pink, of all ridiculous thoughts."

Holmes smiled. "There's some tea here, Watson, if you're up to it."

"Thank you." He pushed himself up, wincing a little, and took the cup. His reflection looked back from the silver surface, but he did not react.

Holmes slipped the bottle of brown hair dye into his pocket. Now he simply must think of a plausible reason for a stout thirty-five year old man to take such a fall. Watson would never have to know.

**So there we are. I hope that was alright, bookgirlfan. This is about to be my exam week, so I suspect I'll procrastinate with some more drabbles. Review, if you would, loves.**


	104. Flour

Mrs. Hudson was the cook in 221B for good reason. Every time Holmes wandered into the kitchen, disaster was sure to follow. By the time of my marriage, Mrs. Hudson had made it a condition that he could not enter the room without her express permission or she would evict him. I imagine the poor woman was tired of replacing her cookware and wallpaper and stove and- well, you see the pattern- after his experiments.

I had stepped in for a visit to my old friend and was rather apphrensive to see him in the kitchen, contemplating a table of ingredients.

"Holmes?" I ventured, stepping into the room.

"Ah, hullo Watson," he said brightly. "I'm making pancakes."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"Mrs. Hudson is feeling under the weather. I thought it would be a kind gesture," he replied, raising his eyebrows.

I was taken rather aback, not only by this show of domesticity but Holmes' consideration of our landlady. He was not an unkind or self-centered man, but ordinarily such actions would not even cross his mind, which usually dwelled on gruesome crime and chemical reactions. I took the moment to check to see if any chemical agents were mixed in with the eggs and flour, but I saw, to my relief, nothing out of place in a kitchen.

"It is quite considerate of you to cook for her," I said a second later, when I had recovered from my surprise. "Would you like some assistance?"

"As always, good Watson."

We managed a respectable breakfast, I may say. I had observed and assisted my wife on enough occasion to keep us on the right path. It helped pancakes require so few ingredients and simple preparation. Holmes even added a flower in a vase, and I could barely contain my chuckle.

After we had given breakfast to our poor landlady, waylaid with a headache, and received a teary declaration of thanks, we immediately went to fulfill her other words: "You two had better leave my kitchen spotless!"

We solemnly promised we would. Holmes was beginning to wash the pans when a wicked thought hit me, and I simply couldn't resist.

"Holmes?"

He turned. I removed my hand from behind my back and threw a handful of flour all over him. It settled on his dressing gown and in his hair, and I collapsed against the table in laughter.

"You do realize you have declared war," he said, wiping flour from his brow.

I smirked. "And which of us was a soldier?" I tried to dodge the flour he threw at me, but his aim was excellent, and my collar was positively white. We both lunged for the bag of flour, and dove behind opposite sides of the table for cover, popping our heads over the edge to throw more flour at each other.

I'm afraid we wasted an entire bag of flour (if you could call it wasted- I'm not entirely certain I do). The kitchen looked like it had snowed when we were finished, and we looked like ghosts. Getting the kitchen 'spotless' took some time, in which Holmes informed me several times this was entirely my fault, and we both continually fell into fits of laughter.

Holmes, at least, had the luxury of being home and within reach of a wash tub. I got quite a few bewildered stares on my walk home, and my wife blinked at me for a moment before lowering her sewing and grinning.

"Your visits must never be boring," she said, and laughed heartily as she went to fetch me a washrag.

**Dedicated to the lovely I'm Nova, because that was fluffy, right?**


	105. Almost Names

"Sherrinford? What kind of name is Sherrinford?"Holmes criticized, throwing his hands in the air.

"Well, I eventually decided against it, didn't I?" Conan Doyle snapped.

"I cannot condone even considering it," Holmes said, frowning.

"I can't say I'm much on the name Orville Sacker myself," Watson added, his brow furrowed. "_Orville. _Ugh."

"John Watson really is much better," Conan Doyle agreed. "I don't know, I wanted the two of you to sound interesting."

"Interesting!" Holmes muttered. Watson shot him a warning look, one that said clearly, _behave yourself before he kills you off again. _Holmes wrinkled his nose back at him. _Let him try. _Watson sighed and turned back to his creator.

"I don't think the names were quite necessary," he replied. "With Holmes around, something interesting is bound to happen on its own.

**Because really, both those names were horrible.**


	106. Worry

**"He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life..." -_The Boscombe Valley Mystery_**

John Watson jumped as the tea tray slammed against the table, lowering his newspaper to see his wife almost angrily fixing his cup of tea. If he weren't observing it, he'd say it'd be impossible to convey anger while preparing tea, but Mary was achieving the effect admirably. She spread butter on his toast precisely as he liked it, the movements of her wrist quick and sharp. John flinched as she yanked out her chair to sit, with a sharp, unpleasant noise as the chair dragged the floor.

He caught her eye, and she asked sharply, "Yes? Do you need something, _dear?_"

He had intended to ask her if she was alright, but her tone cowed him. "Nothing, darling. You look nice," he offered meekly.

Her mouth twitched, and for a second she looked almost amused. "Thank you, dear." Her voice was still not right, and John frowned. She was upset about something. Had he done something?

"I have lunch plans with Mrs. Forrester," Mary said. "I expect I won't see you until dinner."

"Ah, give her my love," John said. Mary nodded. They fell into an odd silence. Ordinarily, he and Mary had a cheery breakfast where he read from the paper and speculated what would be bringing Lestrade to Holmes next, and she filled him in on the neighborhood news. He had definitely angered her somehow.

"I enjoyed your latest," Mary said at last. "_The Boscombe Valley Mystery._"

"Did you?" John said, pleased. He was human, after all, and he loved when Mary praised his writing.

"It was very sweet of you to include our breakfast at the beginning," Mary said. "And what you said."

"What, about how I was grateful Holmes' cases brought us together?"

"You meant that, didn't you?" Mary said very quietly.

"Darling, of course," John said, frowning. "Are you alright, Mary?"

"I'm being foolish," She sighed. "Very foolish, really, let us not discuss it." She rose, reaching for the empty plates, and John seized her wrist.

"Mary. Tell me what's wrong."

Mary sighed and pulled out her chair again; John pulled her onto his lap, and she leaned into his shoulder.

"You still love me, don't you?" she mumbled.

"Mary," John said firmly. "I love you today as much as I did when we were married. Why would you think any different?"

"Well, I-" she flushed. "I am not a jealous woman, John. But I read your story and you described that Miss Turner as one of the loveliest young ladies you'd ever seen, and well, I...I mean, I know I am not the most beautiful woman, and I've gained weight since we wed, and I-"

"Mary, darling," John interrupted. "You could gain twenty stone and you'd still be the most beautiful woman to ever live to me. Besides, why would you think that's all that matters? I love you for much more than your looks."

"Well," Mary began, twisting her apron in her hands. "You know Mrs. Moore, next door? I invited her over for tea, and we got to talking, and she confided in me that her husband has...changed. She said he longer seems interested in her, and he barely looks at her anymore, and she suspects-" Mary swallowed. "She suspects he is having an affair." She raised her eyes to John's, and he was horrified to see them gleaming with tears. "And I know you're not Mr. Moore. You're a much better, kinder husband than he ever was. But they've only been married three years, like we have, and- I suppose when I read that, I worried you would lose interest in me, too. You've been so busy lately..."

"Mary," John whispered. "I could never lose interest in you. It was insensitive of me to write such a thing about Miss Turner, without thinking of how you might interpret that. I love you, Mary, as truly as a man ever loved a woman."

"Still?" Mary asked, a smile beginning on her face.

"Yes," John promised.

"Then I am still a treasure?" she teased.

"The most valuable of all," he swore. Mary kissed him briefly and stood up. "Come now, you must get dressed and go tend to Mr. Carruther's bad knees, and I must tidy myself up and prepare to meet Mrs. Forrester."

"So that wasn't a trick to avoid me, then?" John chuckled.

"Oh, it was," she assured him, grinning. "I also intended to ask her advice. She's been married fifteen years, you know."

John stood. "I'll be home early tonight."

She kissed his cheek. "I'll have the fire lit. Now, get dressed, dear. You're running late."

**I don't know, I think I'd be mad if my husband published something talking about how lovely another woman was.**


	107. Children

Holmes and I were returning from an evening ramble, good-naturedly arguing philosophy, when we heard the cries of a child in pain and a harsh shout. I opened my mouth to call to the child, but Holmes stopped me with a hand on my arm and a grim expression.

"I think stealth may be our friend, Watson," he said. "I believe the sound draws from a few alleys up."

We peered around each alleyway we passed, and we finally saw the source of the cries.

A ragamuffin boy was curled into a ball on the ground, surrounded by several boys who were just as grimy but older.

"Give it!" One shouted, snatching at the boy, kicking him when he shrank back.

"No!" The boy wailed. "It's mine!"

"Give it!" Another boy snarled. "Or we'll break your nose!"

He lunged forawrd and seized something from around the little boy's neck; the boy howled and yanked it back.

Holmes' grip on my arm tightened. We had seen enough. I raised my stick.

But we were beaten to the punch- by none other than our own ragamuffins, who suddenly jaunted out from behind the tavern opposite the alley, where they had presumably been begging or doing reconnaissance.

"I don't think you will, actually," Wiggins drawled.

"Oi, go away," one of the boys hissed. "It's none of your concern."

"Actually, you're on our turf," Wiggins said pleasantly. "What 'appens in me alleyway concerns me."

"You wanna scrap?" The leader of the other boys stood and raised his fists.

Wiggins shrugged. "Up to you, gov. If you look, I've got ten behind me, and you've got three. You might be big lads, but mine are good scrappers."

The boy narrowed his eyes. Wiggins stepped forward, his hands on his hips. The boys behind him straightened up and stood at attention. They stared at each other for several beats, and Holmes and I watched anxiously.

"Fine," The boy spat. "C'mon, lads. We'll get _you _later," he hissed at the boy on the ground, who blanched in fear.

Wiggins glared at them until they were out of sight, then crouched on the ground next to the boy. "You alrigh'?"

"They broke me mum's locket," the boy whispered, voice choked with tears. "They wanted me to give it to 'em to sell, but it's all I have left of her..."

"Can I see?" Wiggins asked kindly. The boy bit his lip, but cautiously put the locket in Wiggins' outstretched palm.

"Ach, we can fix it," Wiggins told him. "Alfie can fix anything, and it's just a broken clasp. Isn't that righ', Alfie?"

"Take no time at all," Alfie assured the boy, patting his shoulder.

"They'll just take it later, though," the boy said gloomily.

"No they won't," Tobias promised. "You can stick with us. Can't he, Wiggins?"

Wiggins smiled. "Of course ye can. Mr. Holmes always needs more help, and he pays real good. And us lads stick together. D'ye think you need a doctor?"

The boy shook his head. "Anyway, I couldn't pay for one."

"We have our own doc that works outta the goodness of his heart," Ralphie said. "He and Mr. Holmes live righ' around here, 'smatter of fact."

"At any rate, some tea would do ye good," Wiggins said firmly, helping the boy up. "What's your name, lad?"

"Henry," he said.

"Well, nice to meet ya, Henry," Wiggins said, and the boys added a friendly chorus of, "Nice to meet you!"

The boy smiled tentatively.

"I think we ought return to Baker Street," I whispered to Holmes, and we withdrew as silently as we had come.

"It still astonishes me, Watson," Holmes said quietly as we let ourselves into the flat that would soon be invaded by padding little feed and hungry mouths. "That children are both the cruelest and the kindest specimens of humanity."


	108. Familiarity

I do not allow myself to be distracted from my analysis of the case at hand, but I observe Watson out of the corner of my eye. It has been some time since I have seen him so ease, as he holds his notepad and pen, head cocked as he listens to Lestrade's frankly surface description of the crime, his eyes bright and aware. My Watson is emerging from the Watson I saw in disguise on my return. That Watson lacked all the liveliness I associate with the good doctor; he was world-weary and bowed low by sorrow. Sorrow I in part caused. I am making it up to him as best I know how: with the work. He tells me he has missed it.

Watson jots down some particulars, and I rise and tell Lestrade his culprit is an elderly person in a calico dress who is nearsighted and peculiarly tall. The clay by the body suggests residence at Coventry Square. As always, he blinks at me, but perhaps because I am Lazarus, he smiles. "Person?" he inquires.

"Surely you've known a fellow to don a dress for a disguise," I chuckle, and catch Watson's eyes. He laughs, a clear, hearty laugh. His eyes gleam, and I revel in the moment of familiarity between us. It is like Moriarty never was, for a moment. I have missed this; yes, I have missed this.

"It's like old times," Watson says quietly that night after a successful capture. I smile at him, and rise to play one of his favorites on the violin. I have not forgotten him, either.


	109. The Work

Seldom did I ever find Holmes on my humble doorstep after we took up separate residences in different branches of the English countryside. Nearly always I was the one to pack for a weekend visit, and even those reunions were regrettably infrequent. I was preoccupied with my graying hair and a bright, bustling family; Holmes was absorbed in his bees and stubbornly suffering from his increasingly more bothersome rheumatism rather than admit his vitality might be slipping. For that reason, I was surprised to see him standing in my yard one day in 1912, seemingly appearing from nowhere, with a small valise in one hand.

"Holmes!" I called. He smiled briefly. "Hello, Watson. I have at last been able to indulge your insistence I visit."

My many years of loyalty had granted me something of deductive powers when applied to my friend, and I knew immediately he was not here merely to frolic with the pups and children and smoke nostalgically with me. Nevertheless, I welcomed him inside and called to my family to greet him.

I waited patiently for two days for Holmes to reveal his true purpose, trying not to grow anxious. It could only be so pressing, or he would have told me immediately. Finally, as he and I sat before the fire, all other people in the house fast asleep as we quietly remembered days past, he turned to me an almost guilty air.

"I'm afraid this will be my last visit for quite some time, old friend," he said. I frowned. "Are you ill, Holmes?"

"No, I am fine," he assured me. "I must simply go away for a while. I had thought the game was up for the likes of me, but yet, it is still afoot."

"Holmes, are you being purposefully vague?"

"I must be, Watson. Secrecy is of the utmost importance. Not that I do not trust you," he added a my wounded expression. "But for your and your family's safety, the less you know for certain, the better."

I raised my eyebrows, and he half-laughed. "Good old Watson! You look rather as you used to when you were scolding me to eat. I must go away for a while, Watson."

"Why?"

"The work."

"How?"

"I cannot say." Holmes looked sorrowful. "It may have been more wise to tell you nothing of it at all, but..." he trailed off. "You forgave me once for leaving without an explanation; I cannot be so presumptuous as to expect the same courtesy once again. I thought it fair to explain my coming distance. I have hope I will return to my bees soon enough, and it is best you pretend I am there..."

I felt a pang at his words, and knew very well I would forgive him almost everything. "Will you be able to write?"

He hesitated. "I hope, occasionally, yes."

"Very well," I nodded. "When are you-?"

"Immediately after this visit. The work is urgent." His voice was brisk, but his eyes were soft and mournful.

I bowed my head. "Then let us enjoy this time."

"Good old Watson," Holmes said again, softly.

**Alright, y'all should know I was really heavily inspired by Chapter 10 of Domina Temporis' The View from the Diogenes (great story, by the way, especially if you're a Mycroft fan). I had never really considered whether Holmes would have given Watson a heads-up or not. Obviously, I think he would. And yes, I am aware Watson says in His Last Bow that the last anyone heard, Holmes was hanging out with his bees, so that's why I kept everything very ambiguous. Also, how have I written so many of these and never played around with HLB? Expect more of these eventually. (Notice I'm keeping my promise to update more often!) **


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